


Tread and Turn

by christransfer



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Lucius Malfoy, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Broken Draco Malfoy, Canon Divergence - Post-Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Dark Mark Kink (Harry Potter), Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Heartbreak, M/M, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Pre-Battle of Hogwarts, Top Blaise Zabini, Top Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2019-08-11 11:31:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 40,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16474745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/christransfer/pseuds/christransfer
Summary: *FORMERLY TITLED 'SOMEBODY ELSE'!*A magical AU in which Draco is brought into hiding with the Order of the Phoenix after Snape kills Dumbledore in the Tower.





	1. Somebody Else

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously I'm not J.K. Rowling, so none of her original characters, places, spells, and plotline belong to me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dumbledore is killed by Snape and Draco finds Harry under the Invisibility Cloak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ripped most of this chapter from Chapter Twenty-Seven straight from the Half-Blood Prince, and just changed the perspective to give Draco's thoughts the main focus. This bit is really just to contextualize the story - I promise the entire fic isn't going to be ripped-off HBP from Draco's perspective.
> 
> Also, this is an edit: I'm changing the chapter titles to songs, now! So, if you're noticing weird edits, that's completely on purpose and none of the fic's content has been changed. Thanks!

Draco burst into the room, wand-arm out, and screamed “Expelliarmus!” without even a moment to think about it. Dumbledore’s wand flew to the side, and Draco let his shaking hand fall to the side a little. The Dark Mark’s light cast shadows throughout the room, and Draco scanned the darkness for anyone else. There were two brooms in the tower, not just the one, and he narrowed his eyes. 

“Who else is here?” he demanded, trying to control his breathing. He could feel his pulse in his temples, the blood flooding his head until he thought it might burst. Death Eater was in his blood, and he was trying to convince himself to do this. He could kill Dumbledore, he _could_. 

Dumbledore, of course, responded in his typical calm way, which would’ve irritated Draco if he didn’t look so pale already. The man looked sickly, perhaps white-faced with shock. “A question I might ask you. Or are you acting alone?”

Draco shifted his gaze back to the sickly headmaster. “No,” he said, hoping Dumbledore didn’t hear the wavering in his tone. “I’ve got back-up. There are Death Eaters here in your school tonight.”

Draco’s attempts to control his breathing had gone out the window, and he was vaguely aware he was panting, his chest heaving up and down. Dumbledore looked at Draco condescendingly through lidded eyes. “Well, well. Very good indeed. You found a way to let them in, did you?”

“Yeah. Right under your nose and you never realized!” Draco noticed himself getting shrill, and made a mental note to dial it back. There would be no triumph if he sounded like a panicked schoolgirl when he killed Dumbledore. _Kill Dumbledore_ , Draco reminded himself. 

“They met some of your guard. They’ve having a fight down below. They won’t be long… I came on ahead. I - I’ve got a job to do.”

“Well, then, you must get on and do it, my dear boy,” Dumbledore said, as if he’d given up already. Something akin to fury flared up in Draco’s stomach, for the man wasn’t even planning on fighting this! Draco Malfoy was counting entirely on losing to Albus Dumbledore’s skill and experience - he had not prepared himself to kill an unarmed man who was now inexplicably smiling. “Draco, Draco, you are not a killer.”

“How do you know?” Draco blurted, and his cheeks went hot. “You don’t know what I’m capable of! You don’t know what I’ve done!”

“Oh, yes, I do. You almost killed Katie Bell and Ronald Weasley. You have been trying, with increasing desperation, to kill me all year. Forgive me, Draco, but they have been feeble attempts… so feeble, to be honest, that I wonder whether your heart has been really in it…”

“It has been in it!” Draco insisted. “I’ve been working on it all year and tonight-“

Draco heard someone shout a few hallways away, and he stiffened. The only thing worse than killing Dumbledore alone would be to have the Death Eaters there to egg him on. Draco had never been fond of their energy, and it was so much worse since the Dark Lord had returned. 

“Somebody is putting up a good fight,” Dumbledore said, as if he was talking to Draco over tea and not in the last moments of his life. “But you were saying… yes, you have managed to introduce Death Eaters into my school which, I admit, I thought impossible… how did you do it?”

Draco couldn’t respond, just kept his ears peeled for what was happening in the castle. 

“Perhaps you ought to get on with the job alone. What if your backup has been thwarted by my guard? As you have perhaps realized, there are members of the Order of the Phoenix here tonight, too. And after all, you don’t really need help… I have no wand at the moment… I cannot defend myself.”

Draco flicked his eyes back to the headmaster ad swallowed past the lump in his throat. His wand arm felt too heavy to lift. 

“I see,” Dumbledore said, all condescending. “You are afraid to act until they join you.”

“I’m not afraid!” snarled its way from Draco’s throat before he could stop it. “It’s you who should be scared!”

“But why? I don’t think you will kill me, Draco. Killing is not nearly as easy as the innocent believe… so tell me, while we wait for your friends… how did you smuggle them in here? It seems to have taken you a long time to work out how to do it.”

Draco swallowed again and tried to clear his head. He knew Dumbledore was playing a game of some kind, trying to psych him out of doing what he had to do. With a trembling arm, he pointed his wand at Dumbledore’s heart. He tried to convince himself to cast the spell - _two words, Draco_ \- but he owed Dumbledore the explanation. It seemed to be the man’s dying wish.

“I had to mend that broken Vanishing Cabinet that no one’s used for years. The one Montague got lost in last year.”

Dumbledore groaned quietly, and his eyes fell shut for a fraction of a second. “That was clever… there is a pair, I take it?”

“The other’s in Borgin and Burkes, and they make a kind of passage between them. Montague told me that when he was stuck in the Hogwarts one, he was trapped in limbo but sometimes he could hear what was going on at school, and sometimes what was going on in the shop, as if the Cabinet was traveling between them, but he couldn’t make anyone hear him… in the end he managed to Apparate out, even though he’d never passed his test. He nearly died doing it. Everyone thought it was a really good story, but I was the only one who realized what it meant - even Borgin didn’t know - I was the one who realized there could be a way into Hogwarts through the Cabinets if I fixed the broken one.”

“Very good,” Dumbledore praised him quietly, and Draco tried his best to ignore the little bit of pride he felt from the compliment. “So the Death Eaters were able to pass from Borgin and Burkes into the school to help you… a clever plan, a very clever plan… and, as you say, right under my nose…”

“Yeah,” Draco breathed, “yeah, it was!”

“But there were times, weren’t there, when you were not sure you would succeed in mending the Cabinet? And you resorted to crude and badly judged measures such as sending me a cursed necklace that was bound to reach the wrong hands… poisoning mead there was only the slightest chance I might drink…”

“Yeah, well, you still didn’t realize who was behind that stuff, did you?” Draco said smugly, and watched as Dumbledore began to slide a little closer to the floor. He looked bad, and Draco knew that it wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t understand why Dumbledore looked so feeble, but guilt ebbed in the corners of his mind. It was hardly fair, someone so vulnerable… 

“As a matter of fact, I did. I was sure it was you.”

_What_?

“Why didn’t you stop me, then?”

“I tried, Draco. Professor Snape has been keeping watch over you on my orders-“

“He hasn’t been doing your orders, he promised my mother-“

“Of course that is what he would tell you, Draco, but-“

“He’s a double-agent, you stupid old man, he isn’t working for you, you just think he is!” Draco exclaimed triumphantly.

“We must agree to differ on that, Draco. It so happens that I trust Professor Snape-”

“Well, you’re losing your grip, then! He’s been offering me plenty of help - wanting all the glory for himself - wanting a bit of the action - ‘What are you doing? Did you do the necklace, that was stupid, it could have blown everything-’ But I haven’t told him what I’ve been doing in the Room of Requirement, he’s going to wake up tomorrow and it’ll all be over and he won’t the Dark Lord’s favourite any more, he’ll be nothing compared to me, nothing!” Draco had to draw in a large breath at the end of his proud outburst, keeping his eyes steadily on Dumbledore and trying to work up the nerve, the nerve to…

“Very gratifying,” Dumbledore said, almost disinterestedly. “We all like appreciation for our own hard work, of course… but you must have had an accomplice, all the same… someone in Hogsmeade, someone who was able to slip Katie the - the-“ Dumbledore made a strange, pained noise, and Draco narrowed his eyes. “… of course,” Dumbledore continued, “… Rosmerta. How long has she been under the Imperius Curse?”

“Got there at last, have you?” Draco taunted, in that same tone he typically reserved for Harry Potter. Potter - where was he now? Draco silently hoped that none of his companions would find his nemesis. Not tonight.

The yelling from the castle was growing louder in the background, and Draco glanced over his shoulder at the door. It was still closed, the shadows around it dousing everything in a sheen of darkness. 

“So poor Rosmerta was forced to lurk in her own bathroom and pass that necklace to any Hogwarts student who entered the room unaccompanied? And the poisoned mead… well, naturally, Rosmerta was able to poison it for you before she sent the bottle to Slughorn, believing that it was to be my Christmas present… yes, very neat… very neat… poor Mr. Filch would not, of course, think to check a bottle of Rosmerta’s… tell me, how have you been communicating with Rosmerta? I thought we had all methods of communication in and out of the school monitored?”

Ignoring the violent shaking of his wand arm, Draco continued to talk. “Enchanted coins. I had one and she had the other and I could send her messages-“

“Isn’t that the secret method of communication the group that called themselves Dumbledore’s Army used last year?” Dumbledore’s voice was gaining some traction, but he looked even weaker now. His pale face shone in the light from the Dark Mark in the sky above, casting strange shadows over his crooked nose. 

“Yeah, I got the idea from them,” Malfoy admitted, smiling a little. “I got the idea of poisoning the mead from the Mudblood Granger, as well, I heard her talking in the library about Filch not recognizing potions…”

Draco managed a laugh at the triviality of it all, even though he did feel guilty for saying Mudblood. Felt guilty every time he said it, in fact, but Father always encouraged it. “You care about me saying ‘Mudblood’ when I’m about to kill you?”

“Yes, I do,” Dumbledore’s shoes slipped on the floor and he had to grasp at the wall a little to keep himself upright. “But as for being about to kill me, Draco, you have had several long minutes now. We are quite alone. I am more defenceless than you can have dreamed of finding me, and still you have not acted…”

Draco wished more than anything he could say it aloud: he was horrified at the notion of doing this. He knew he had to, for the Malfoy honour and to keep his own life, but looking at Dumbledore now he remembered al the times he’d seen the man in the hallways or the Great Hall, humming and smiling at every student without the slightest contempt for who they were, who their family was. Still, Draco had to kill him, he needed to.

“Now, about tonight, I am a little puzzled about how it happened… you knew that I had left the school? But of course,” he didn’t give Draco time to answer, having solved the puzzle in less than a second, “Rosemerta saw me leaving, she tipped you off using your ingenious coins, I’m sure…”

“That’s right. But she said you were just going for a drink, you’d be back…” 

“Well, I certainly did have a drink… and I came back… after a fashion…” Dumbledore trailed off, almost amused. “So you decided to spring a trap for me?”

“We decided to put the Dark Mark over the Tower and get you to hurry up here to see who had been killed. And it worked!” Draco was proud, ridiculously so, and was happy to be telling all of his cleverness to Dumbledore. After all, it was gratifying to have this great wizard, however much of a stupid old man he was, admit that he’d been bested by someone so much younger.

“Well… yes and no… But am I to take it, then, that nobody has been murdered?”

Draco shuddered. “Someone’s dead,” he said, his voice jumping in pitch again like it had before. “One of your people… I don’t know who, it was dark… I stepped over the body… I was supposed to be waiting up here when you got back, only your Phoenix got in the way.”

“Yes, they do that,” Dumbledore replied, not even asking about the body. Draco knew it was a redhead, that much was clear, and wagered it was likely a Weasley. After all, copper-red hair ran strong in that blood-traitor family of theirs. There was a bang from the stairs up to the tower, and more shouting. Draco stiffened and tried to listen to who was coming. 

“There is little time, one way or another,” Dumbledore pulled his attention back. “So let us discuss your options, Draco.”

“My options!” he all but shouted. “I’m standing her with a wand - I’mm about to kill you-”

“My dear boy, let us have no more pretence about that. If you were going to kill me, you would have done it when you first disarmed me, you would not have stopped for this pleasant chat about ways and means.”

Draco tried to remember to breathe, to fill his lungs with the musty air of the Tower, but he could not explain to Dumbledore in the right words the terror, that he needed to do this, he had to.

“I haven’t got any options!” Draco shouted, with conviction like he’d never had before. “I’ve got to do it! He’ll kill me! He’ll kill my whole family!” 

That much, Draco knew to be absolutely true. The Dark Lord had no issue with killing people, no matter what age or loyalty. Draco had seen it firsthand, had heard stories. His mother’s crying in the nighttime while his father spoke in hushed anxious tones told him enough. 

“I appreciate the difficulty of your position. Why else do you think I have not confronted you before now? Because I knew that you would have been murdered if Lord Voldemort realized that I suspected you.” Draco winced when he heard the Dark Lord’s name out loud. “I did not dare speak to you of the mission with which I knew you had been entrusted, in case he used Legilimency against you. But now at last we can speak plainly to each other… no harm has been done, you have hurt nobody, though you are very lucky that your unintentional victims survived… I can help you, Draco.”

The offer sounded sincere, but there was no way to trust those words. “No, you can’t,” Draco insisted, realizing he sounded close to tears. “Nobody can. He told me to do it or he’ll kill me. I’ve got no choice.”

“Come over to the right side, Draco, and we can hide you more completely than you can possibly imagine. What is more, I can send members of the Order to your mother tonight to hide her likewise. Your father is safe at the moment in Azkaban… when the time comes we can protect him too… come over to the right side, Draco… you are not a killer…”

It felt like a rock dropped in Draco’s guts. Months ago, that offer would have been something to consider, before he’d gone this far. Death Eaters were here, now, and there was nothing he could do to turn back now. And his parents? The offer of protection by the Order of the Phoenix would not bring them over. Draco would have to leave them behind, live in some awful little house like the Weasleys and spend the rest of his life alone and hated within the Order. 

“But I got this far, didn’t I?” Draco said deliberately, as much to himself as the man in front of him. “They thought I’d die in the attempt, but I’m here… and you’re in my power… I’m the one with the wand… you’re at my mercy…”

“No, Draco. It is my mercy, and not yours, that matters now.”

Draco’s breathed through his mouth, and his hand could not hold his wand steady no matter how hard he tried. Perhaps he could go with Dumbledore, perhaps… 

The footsteps were thunderous and the door slammed open. There were four of the Death Eaters, and he’d made no move to kill Dumbledore yet. Amycus and Alecto - Draco hated them, and their stupid little faces. Greyback was there, looking as malicious as always.

“Dumbledore cornered!” Amycus and Alecto met eyes with matching grins. “Dumbledore wandless, Dumbledore alone! Well done, Draco, well done!”

Draco shrunk under the gaze of the Carrows, hating the way their praise grated against his skin.

“Good evening, Amycus,” Dumbledore welcomed them pleasantly. “And you’ve brought Alecto too… charming…”

“Think your little jokes’ll help you on your death bed, then?” Alecto asked, through her insane little giggles.

“Jokes? No, no, these are manners.”

“Do it,” Fenrir Greyback barked, and Draco jumped a little. Greyback’s ordering him around was expected by now, but it still made his skin crawl with a mixture of terror and distaste.

“Is that you, Fenrir?” Dumbledore asked, still playing the fool.

“That’s right. Pleased to see me, Dumbledore?”

“No, I cannot say that I am…”

“But you know how much I like kids, Dumbledore.”

“Am I to take it that you are attacking even without the full moon now? This is most unusual… you have developed a taste for human flesh that cannot be satisfied once a month?”

“That’s right. Shocks you, that, does it, Dumbledore? Frightens you?”

It frightened Draco, for one thing. He’d seen Greyback with blood dripping down his chin many a time now, and it never got any less horrifying. He was sure it was like that now, because he could hear Greyback licking his lips while Draco kept his eyes fixated on Dumbledore.

“Well, I cannot pretend it does not disgust me a little. And, yes, I am a little shocked that Draco here invited you, of all people, into the school where his friends live…”

“I didn’t,” Draco insisted, meeting Dumbledore’s eyes and trying to say _‘I’m sorry’_ through the gaze alone. “I didn’t know he was going to come-”

“I wouldn’t want to miss a trip to Hogwarts, Dumbledore. Not when there are throats to be ripped out… delicious, delicious…”

“I could do you for afters, Dumbledore…”

“No,” Draco heard Yaxley say sharply. “We’ve got orders. Draco’s got to do it. Now, Draco, and quickly.”

Draco could feel the terror coursing through him, and he stared at Dumbledore while trying to muster up the courage. The old man was leaning so heavily into the wall it seemed he could barely keep himself upright anymore, and looking at him only caused Draco to swell with pity. There was no bloodthirstiness in him.

“He’s not long for this world anyway, if you ask me!” Amycus sneered, and Alecto giggled along. “Look at him - what’s happened to you, then, Dumby?”

“Oh, weaker resistance, slower reflexes, Amycus. Old age, in short… one day, perhaps, it will happen to you… if you are lucky,” Dumbledore was still speaking bravely, but in a voice that slurred.

“What’s that mean, then, what’s that mean?” Amycus yelled.

“Always the same, weren’t yeh, Dumby, talking and doing nothing, nothing, I don’t even know why the Dark Lord’s bothering to kill yeh! Come on, Draco, do it!”

There was more shouting on the stairs and someone was shouting.

“Now, Draco, quickly!” Yaxley insisted.

Draco couldn’t aim his hand, it shook so violently.

“I’ll do it,” Greyback offered, appearing in Draco’s peripheral.

“I said no!” Yaxley shouted, and hit Greyback with a hex that send him flying. 

“Draco, do it, or stand aside so one of us-“ Alecto was cut off by Snape himself, his wand drawn and his black eyes surveying the terror. Relief flooded Draco, because at last, here was someone who had sworn to help him. Snape would know what to do, how to help Draco finish Dumbledore off.

“We’ve got a problem, Snape,” Amycus explained, “the boy doesn’t seem able-“

Then, quietly, in a pitiful voice, “Severus…”

Draco snapped his head back to look at the speaker. Dumbledore was having a hard time looking up at Snape. Draco was shoved harshly aside, and when he tripped, he threw out his hand to break his fall. He hit something warm, a person - his hand caught the Invisibility Cloak and, in a silent moment of shock, Draco recognized Harry Potter’s hand. He could recognize it, of course, because of the Gryffindor sleeve that draped the fingers. _What other Gryffindor would be in the Tower with Dumbledore?_ Draco looked to see if anyone was looking, but everyone’s attention was on Dumbledore and Snape. Quickly, his heart pounding so hard it marred his vision, he re-covered Potter’s hand and watched the scene unfold before him.

“Severus… please…” Dumbledore was finally begging for his life.

Snape’s expression didn’t waver. He raised his hand like he was a mechanism intended for this, and pointed it directly at Dumbledore’s chest.

“Avada Kedavra!” he shouted.

The green light hit Dumbledore’s chest and he was blasted over the battlements like a ragdoll. He went over the side of the Tower, and was gone. It had been done, and Draco hadn’t been the one to do it: Albus Dumbledore was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Well you look like yourself  
> But you're somebody else  
> Only it ain't on the surface  
> Well you talk like yourself  
> No, I hear someone else though  
> Now you're making me nervous."  
> -'Somebody Else,' Flora Cash


	2. I'll Be Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco arrives at Grimmauld Place and formally meets the Weasleys for the first time.

Draco felt like his head was full of rocks. He could not see straight. Dumbledore was dead, dead as can be, and Harry Potter was in the room. Draco stood again, looking at the spot where he knew Potter was, strangely frozen. 

“Out of here, quickly,” Snape said, coming up behind Draco and grabbing the back of his neck. “What are you looking at, there?”

Draco looked away. “N-nothing!”

Snape leapt forward, and grabbed at the spot where Draco’d been looking. There was Potter, still frozen, his eyes wheeling wildly around to try and see what was going on. There was no time for Draco to react, because Potter was on his feet in an instant, his wand drawn and pointed directly at Snape. But Snape’s magic was better, and faster, and wordless: Potter was petrified again in a moment. 

“Well, well, what have we got here?” Greyback rasped, having stayed along in the room. He saw Potter and Greyback’s awful face, crusted with dried blood, twisted into a smile. Potter’s eyes were wide as saucers, but he couldn’t move or speak. Draco could barely react to the situation, but Amycus and Alecto had fallen in behind him now. The Death Eaters stared at Potter for a moment, and then, without warning, Amycus raised his want.

“Crucio!” he blurted, and Potter’s eyes rolled back in his head. He couldn’t move or scream in agony, but it was clear in the way his brilliant green irises jerked that he was experiencing pain like never before. 

“Stop, Amycus,” Snape said firmly in his nasally voice, authority seeping from his tone. Amycus rolled his eyes and put his wand down.

“I don’t see why we can’t have a little fun with him,” he complained, and Draco watched in horror as Snape shrugged instead. He dropped Potter’s frozen-stiff body onto the floor and stepped back, turning so as not to see what was happening. Alecto giggled and clapped her hands as her brother cast another Cruciatus Curse at the paralyzed Chosen One. Draco could feel something building in his chest as he watched Potter’s silent agony. It was when Alecto decided to cast the curse again that Draco burst.

“Stop! Stop that right now!” he screamed, shoving Alecto with two flat palms and moving to Potter’s side in an instant.

“What the bloody hell, Draco?” Amycus snarled, and was about to spout a much stronger cuss when Professor McGonagall appeared in the doorway, trailed by Ginny Weasley and Neville Longbottom. Draco was relieved to see them, even though he knew it meant he was in dire trouble. McGonagall had Amycus and Alecto immobilized in instants, and Weasley managed Greyback without so much as a thought. Yaxley went down just as easily with a surprising decent hex from Longbottom. Snape was watching McGonagall as she went to unfreeze Potter.

The first words out of the Chosen One’s mouth were: “Snape killed Dumbledore.” 

At that moment precisely, before McGonagall could even process Potter’s words, Snape scooped a broomstick from the floor and jumped from the Tower. Draco watched his black silhouette against the dark blue of the night sky, the fading light of the Dark Mark illuminating his robes.

Potter was shuddering something awful, and Weasley was on him like a preening mother bird, her hands in his hair and speaking to him in a low voice. Longbottom glared at Draco with a revulsion that Draco could not help but return, and he then turned his gaze back to Potter, who was pushing his redheaded girlfriend from him to stand up. His knees looked like they might buckle in a matter of seconds, but he managed to brace himself against his companion and stare at Draco. He looked to be crying, though Draco couldn’t really be sure. He also couldn’t understand the sympathy he felt that was making itself known in the back of his mind.

Quietly, almost as though he didn’t mean to say it, Potter said, “You alright, Malfoy?”

Draco was stunned, like someone had flung a Petrificus Totalus at him, instead, but he manage to stutter out a response that barely sounded like words at all but what he meant by them was “It doesn’t matter.”

Potter collapsed a moment later, pulling McGonagall back to the boy. Draco watched him be carted away by Madam Pomfrey ten minutes after that, and awaited his own fate. He was shaking so hard he could feel it rattling in his chest, and he wondered idly if he’d be meeting his father in Azkaban so young. Certainly there’d be dire punishments for trying to kill the headmaster (more than once). Draco then began to wonder what Potter was thinking. Whether he hated him for trying to kill Dumbledore, or wanted to thank him for trying to hide him. 

“Mr. Malfoy,” Professor McGonagall said in her prim-and-proper voice, “I expect every single detail from you immediately.”

Draco followed McGonagall to Dumbledore’s old office, and sat down in a chair. She stared down her nose at him and he tried to keep his composure.

He started the story at the beginning of sixth year, and didn’t stop until dawn. 

#

While Draco talked, Professor McGonagall sat, for the most part, with her hands folded in front of her on Dumbledore’s old desk, fixating Draco with a look that sent his skin crawling. Every once in a while, his voice would break, as he explained his plans to kill the headmaster throughout the year. When he got to the part about Katie Bell - innocent Katie Bell, some girl who was never meant to be involved - he had to stop for a moment and cry silently into his hands. McGonagall watched him with an expression that could have been contempt or pity - Draco was too distressed to pick the woman’s emotions apart.

Draco explained the threats the Dark Lord had given him, his lack of choice, the sheer terror and motivation for his own safety that had him prepared to kill Professor Dumbledore. He explained that it was Snape who’d done it, because he’d faltered. When he said that Dumbledore went over the side of a tower “limp, like a doll,” McGonagall made a noise halfway between a gasp and a whimper. By the end of the recounting, Draco was trying unsuccessfully to stop the sobs that were wrenching through him as he gasped for air. McGonagall had never liked him, that much he knew, but he could not stop himself from losing his calm in front of her. 

“I just want it to stop,” Draco said, in a voice he could recognize as broken but could do nothing to stop. McGonagall was silent for a time, until Draco gulped enough air, hiccuped, and stopped his crying. 

“Thank you, Mr. Malfoy,” the Gryffindor head of house said quietly, “go to your Common Room please, and stay there. I’ll send someone to find you when I need to speak with you again.”

Draco could not get out of there fast enough. His whole body was shuddering, and he wiped his face with his sleeves. The fabric scratched his raw cheeks but he couldn’t bring himself to care. When he’d walked down the hallway awhile, he slumped against the wall. He couldn’t bring himself to go to the Common Room, to see the faces of his peers. Crabbe and Goyle would want direction, Blaise would want to comfort him in a way he wasn’t prepared to be comforted, and Pansy would be looking for gossip. Everyone would know he was behind the attack. 

Draco’s shoulder’s shook, and he could feel his frantic breaths rattling around in his ribcage. He didn’t know where to go or what to do. He could feel the burning tingling in his nose that he knew meant he was about to cry, and he doubted he’d be able to stop the tears once they’d started. 

Draco inhaled, and on the exhale, he lost it.

He didn’t think he’d ever made a sound quite like the one he was making now, a low, keening cry that sounded almost like a dog. The sobs that wracked through his body were making it hard for him to control his movements, and he watched his knees knocking together as he tried to compose himself enough tostand. Go back to the Common Room. Let Blaise pull him into bed and cast a Silencing Charm and press heated kisses to his neck. Draco could lie still and let the pain of Blaise easing into him serve as a punishment. But he couldn’t make himself _move_ , not yet.

Over and over in his mind, Draco could see Potter’s eyes jerking around in their sockets as he lay on the Tower floor in silent, impossible-to-conceive agony. It was Draco’s fault that the Death Eaters had gotten into the castle, and it was Draco’s fault that Amycus had gotten Potter more than once with the Cruciatus Curse. 

_Draco’s fault, Draco’s fault, Draco’s fault._

Draco chewed on his lip with his shaking teeth and felt the sharp pain of his tooth when he bit down harder. The tangy, metallic taste of blood flooded his mouth and he was almost grateful for it. The taste of blood was familiar, comforting - as familiar as the blow of his father’s hand against his cheek as a child when he couldn’t live up to the Malfoy name. 

Draco didn’t know how he’d explain this to Father, either - he was sure Snape had gotten away, and for that reason alone he knew the failure to kill Dumbledore himself would reach Malfoy Sr’s ears. Perhaps, even, his attempts to hide Potter from the Death Eaters would be relayed. Draco imagined the sneering then as his father’s Elf-polished boot found its way into the soft parts of his gut over and over, “Save Potter, do you _love him now_ , Draco?” and Draco would lie and sob, “No, Father, of course not, Father, please!” Until he couldn’t talk anymore through gritted teeth.

Draco inhaled, and before he could let out another shaky exhale, there was a hand on his shoulder. He looked at the hand, the thin, pale fingers. He followed the hand to a green-nightgowned sleeve and upwards into the face of Pansy Parkinson, who somehow managed to emanate empathy and judgement at once.

“Draco,” she cooed, and Draco tried to wipe his eyes without her noticing. “What are you doing out here in the hall?”

Draco opened his mouth to answer her, but a shudder choked him before he had a chance to get the words out. Her expression softened some and she cupped his cheek with her soft little hand. Draco leaned eagerly into the touch. Often, people thought he and Pansy were dating, but it didn’t bother him much. The two of them knew well enough what they were doing, and what they were doing was as chaste and innocent as it could possibly be.

“Oh, Draco,” she sighed, and held her hands out to him to lift him up to his feet. When Draco was finally standing, he looked down on her and wondered if he was about to faint. His head was swimming with regrets and fear and guilt, whirling through his brain so fast he could barely see. “What happened?” Pansy demanded, when she realized her comforting touches and soft-spoken kindness was getting her nowhere. “Goddammit, Draco, there were _Death Eaters in the castle!_ ”

Pansy’s voice was coming out shrill, and she looked ready to slap Draco in order to snap him out of his sobs, but instead, with a sullen glare marring her features, she pulled him forward to tuck his face into her neck. Draco could feel the tears starting to gather on the soft skin of her neck, making it feel a little sticky. Pansy’s fingers started to wind themselves in Draco’s hair, just hard enough to to make his scalp tingle with dull pain. Pansy was a smart witch, very aware of the nuances of her friend’s reactions to distress. For a while they stood together in their strange embrace, Draco - even though he was much taller than the girl - cradled against her like he was a child being held by his mother. When Draco pulled back, he found he could breathe much more steadily, and he fixed Pansy with watery grey eyes.

“It was my fault,” he mumbled, looking at a point on her forehead to avoid seeing her expression harden as he explained what had happened. “I- I let the Death Eaters into the castle. Pansy, I had to - I wouldn’t have-” he took in a heavy gulp of air and narrowed his eyes between her eyebrows. “He was going to kill my family, he was going to kill _me_ , Pansy! and I didn’t want to, I swear, but-”

“Calm down, Draco, tell me what happened,” Pansy said soothingly, drawing Draco’s hand to her face and looking into his eyes. He focused on hers and swallowed past the lump growing steadily in his throat.

“I tried to kill Dumbledore.”

“Why?” she blurted, before she could stop herself.

“He was going to kill my family,” Draco shook his head and pulled his hand from her face. “And I still couldn’t do it! Not even for-” he choked. “Not even for Mother!”

“Is Dumbledore dead?”

“Yes,” Draco gasped, thanking her silently for not pressing that particular issue further. 

“Who killed him, then?”

“Snape.”

“Another Dark Arts teacher, gone? Merlin, Draco, really?”

Draco nodded and fell against her like speaking took all of the energy from him. Pansy, bless hr conniving little heart, just held him there. She didn’t speak any longer, and neither did Draco. There was something comforting about being held like this, about being held like the child he never got to be. When Draco was young, Mother used to hold him like this, but he was far too old for that nonsense now. Father wouldn’t be pleased if he saw Narcissa cradling Draco like a baby, would probably hit him extra-hard this time.

“Mr Malfoy, Miss Parkinson!” came McGonagall’s voice suddenly, jerking Draco out of Pansy’s grip in an instant. “What are you two doing out of your Common Room?”

“I came looking for Draco,” Pansy replied confidently, eyeing McGonagall as if daring her to argue. “There were Death Eaters in the castle and he was missing.”

“Fifty points from Slytherin for that foolishness, Miss Parkinson,” Professor McGonagall replied in her usual clipped tone, though she was eyeing Draco rather than Pansy as she spoke. Pansy laughed, right in the professor’s face.

“Points don’t mean a thing right about now, Professor!” Pansy sneered.

“Then let’s round it up to one hundred, shall we?”

“Be. My. Guest.”

Draco wiped his nose on his sleeve and breathed heavily, drawing the attention of the two back onto him. 

“Mr Malfoy, someone’s here to collect you.”

“What?!” Draco’s mind started reeling. He’d almost killed one of the most famous wizards of all time, so Draco had no doubt that it would be Azkaban for him. He could join Father, he supposed. Fear flooded the Malfoy heir at the mere thought of being locked up in a place where his father was. He’d done that for a decade before Hogwarts, and every holiday after. He couldn’t do that again. Pansy was ordered to return to the Slytherin dungeons, and, numbly, Draco followed Professor McGonagall up the stairs and back into Dumbledore’s office. Dumbledore’s pet Phoenix was perched there, now, and it was howling something awful. Upon seeing Draco, it took flight out the window, and carried on its awful cries. Draco had never heard anything quite like it, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. It wrenched his heart - he could feel the Phoenix’s pain in his very core.

Standing beside the fireplace was the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher from third year - that weird, scarred werewolf called Professor Lupin. He looked even older than Draco remembered him, and Draco remembered him looking quite pathetic the last time he’d seen him. Professor McGonagall had red-rimmed eyes, Draco realized suddenly, like she’d been crying. It was jarring, because Draco had a hard time believing that nasty old bitch had any place in her for tears. 

“Malfoy,” Lupin said, nodding to Draco. “We’re taking you to a secure location away from the school.”

Draco stared at him in awe for a moment before realizing what he was being told. “Where?”

“I’m certain you’ve been there before. Grimmauld Place?”

The name struck Draco as vaguely familiar. His entire childhood had been spent on visiting musty old houses belonging to one family member or another. “And you’re just taking me there? Don’t I get a say?”

“Would you really rather be left to the Dark Lord’s mercy?” Draco shook his head. _Of course he didn’t._ Lupin sighed, examining Draco up and down with disdain. “They’re recruiting so young, now.”

McGonagall cleared her throat sharply, and Lupin seemed to remember himself. He handed Draco the pot of Floo powder. Draco stepped into the fireplace, threw down the powder, and shouted “TWELVE GRIMMAULD PLACE!” as if the louder he shouted would get him out of there any faster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "My past has tasted bitter  
> For years now  
> So I wield an iron fist  
> Grace is just weakness  
> Or so I've been told  
> I've been cold, I've been merciless  
> But the blood on my hands scares me to death  
> Maybe I'm waking up today.
> 
> I'll be good, I'll be good  
> And I'll love the world, like I should  
> I'll be good, I'll be good  
> I'll be good, I'll be good."  
> -'I'll Be Good,' Jaymes Young


	3. Hello My Old Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the wait, all of you! I know a couple people thought I had abandoned this fic, but I haven't - I'm just caught up with university applications and other interests. I'll definitely still be hacking away at this fanfiction over time, but I can't really promise you a firm update schedule or anything.

When Draco fell forward from the fireplace at twelve Grimmauld Place, he was choked by soot. He very rarely traveled by Floo powder, and he wiped black powder from his sallow cheeks as he peered around the kitchen. Remus Lupin immediately looked as dirty and raggedy as always, and eyed Draco for a long, quiet moment. He had patient eyes that reminded Draco of the late headmaster. Malfoy swallowed past the thick lump in his throat. 

While he was shaking dust from his hair, he realized he did recognize the room he was in; in fact, he knew it well. Draco recognized the long wooden table that stretched across it, since he had spent many childhood meal there, indulging his great-aunt Walburga. Lupin saw him studying the room, and quirked a faint smile.

“Ah, so you do recognize it,” he observed.

Draco nodded and glanced at the china cabinet. The room was clean, perhaps even better than he remembered it being when he had been there last. While Draco was running his eyes over the Black family crest, a plump redheaded woman came scurrying into the room, her expression falling when her eyes fell onto Malfoy. 

“Remus?” she demanded of Lupin, refusing to even acknowledge her guest. 

“They’re alive, Molly,” the worn-down old werewolf replied, catching her as she strode in his direction and clasping her hands. “All of them are. Your children are safe-” at this, Molly who Draco supposed must be the Weasleys’ mother - crumpled, her shoulders falling. “But Dumbledore…”

Molly Weasley choked and her eyes watered, but she remained her composure as Remus Lupin detailed Dumbledore’s death to her. When it was said and finished, she nodded once, swallowed, and turned her intense gaze onto Draco.

“Well, dear, are you hungry?” she asked, as if his arrival wasn’t really all that surprising. Draco found himself at a momentary loss for words, and he averted his gaze to stare at his shoes.

“Don’t put yourself through any trouble,” he mumbled, though he wasn’t used to those words coming from his mouth. Typically, he would ask for what he wanted and expect it delivered. Molly Weasley narrowed her eyes.

“You’ll be eating when the rest arrive, young man,” she decided, and began to busy her plump little being with the stove. She was a flurry of colourful clothing and motion, summoning kitchen implements and ingredients with easy flicks of her wand. Lupin caught Draco’s eye.

“Want to see your room, then?”

Draco followed wordlessly, into the entry hall. Draco remembered when it was in relatively decent shape, a grand receiving room for purebloods, but now the wallpaper was peeling all around the high-ceilinged room. There were portraits of long-dead family members, and one covered by a curtain. Draco considered asking about it, but the words refused to unstick themselves from his throat. 

All the way up the stairs, Draco keep this eyes trained away from the shrunken house-elf heads lining the stairway. Lupin was quiet, and climbed with the tired shuffle of a broken man. As they reached the top of the stairs, the old DADA professor turned to face Draco. 

“There’s an empty room up here for you,” he said, “if you want to get settled, Molly’ll send someone up when she’s got food ready.” Draco nodded along complacently. “Would you like something else to wear? I’m sure Sirius has some old clothes lying around.”

“Sirius?” he asked idly, knowing the name from somewhere, but too tired to remember where from.

“Black. A cousin of yours.”

“ _Sirius Black, the criminal?_ ” Draco finally pieced together, his eyes bugging a little. “The one that killed all those Muggle-borns? How did he possibly get Aunt Walburga’s house?”

Lupin looked like he wanted to smile and cry at once. “One of the few members of the Black family remaining, he was.”

“Was?”

Lupin’s shoulders slumped, and he rubbed the bridge of his nose. When his eyes met Draco’s again, he shook his head. “Another time.”

Draco was curious, but decided he shouldn’t press the old werewolf any further. He pushed open the door that Lupin told him was his for the time being, and looked around the room. It smelled musty, like it hadn’t been used in a while, and the bed’s coverings were wrinkled. Still, he hadn’t slept much in a long while, and now that Dumbledore was dead his responsibility was done. He didn’t undress, just kicked off his shoes at the edge of the bed, and sank into the mattress. Tears prickled at the edge of his eyes for a little while, but sleep took him before they spilled over.

#

“Malfoy?” a timid voice came from the doorway, and Draco started awake. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes to see who had come into his room, and he nearly had a stroke when he noticed who it was stood there, his arms hanging limply at his side. “I knocked, but you didn’t answer.”

Harry Potter looked worse than Draco had ever seen him, dark circles sinking his strikingly green eyes into his face. There was a bruise on his cheekbone, and his hair was a mess. Draco’s voice was thick with sleep, and it took him a moment to find the words. 

“Oh,” he replied lightly, sitting up and pushing the blankets aside. “Do you think it might be better if I stay away? I have my doubts that the Weasleys are particularly ecstatic about my presence here.”

Potter smiled weakly. “Mrs Weasley asked for you specifically…” he hesitated before continuing, “and I’d like to see you there.”

“ _You?_ ”

This time, a laugh bubbled out of Potter’s throat. “You saved my life, Malfoy.”

“Are you daft?” Draco snapped in response, but he glowed with pride. He could only hope it didn’t show plainly on his face. “You got hit twice with a Cruciatus curse.”

Potter winced. “Well, I suppose it’s the thought that counts.”

Draco slipped from the mattress and Potter took his cue to leave, barrelling down the stairs with an energy that was hard to believe after the pain he’d endured that night. Draco tied his black dress shoes back up and following in his nemesis’ path down the stairs. As he approached the dining room, he could hear strains of the large group taking their meal together. They sounded awfully cheerful for a group whose leader had jus been murdered by a Death Eater, but Draco supposed he didn’t really know these people well enough to judge their reactions to something traumatic. 

The chatter fell to a hush when Draco appeared in the doorway, looking down the long table at a cluster of familiar faces. He had never seen so much red hair in his life. Lupin was there, his elbows braced upon the table and his face hanging in his hands. There was a woman with hair a spectacular shade of pink, and Granger, that Mudblood. She was staring him down with a glare that surpassed even his mother’s, and he felt himself withering. Typically, when he was confronted by Potter and his gang, he had at least Crabbe and Goyle to back him up. He had never felt more defenceless than he did in this moment. 

Mrs Weasley was the first to breech the silence, gesturing to point to a chair between two redheaded boys. Draco knew immediately they were the twins, and stiffened. He was apprehensive about being sandwiched between the two of them, because he was well-aware of their reputation. He took a breath and sat himself down. Both of the twins seemed to feel the same way about sitting with him, because they squared their shoulders and lost whatever laughs they were sharing between the two of them. When Draco looked out across the table, he saw the feast that Mrs Weasley had prepared - roast chicken, mashed potatoes, string beans, candied yams, and a tureen of soup so huge Draco imagined it could feed all of Hogwarts. He lifted his eyes to the people sitting around him, most of whom were ignoring him, or, in the case of Potter’s best friend, glaring intensely. 

Except for Potter himself, who was watching Draco with a sort of absent interest. Draco felt flush creeping up his neck and forced himself to look down at his plate. The china was chipped and dated, but it was still usable. He knew the Weasleys were poor, so he couldn’t really blame them for their dishes being in bad condition. 

“Well, dear, pass your plate!” Mrs Weasley ordered with a tense friendliness, trying to break up the awkwardness that seemed to be swallowing everyone whole. Draco did what he was told, though rather clumsily. He clattered his plate against the soup tureen in his effort to pass it to Mrs Weasley, and breathed out a sigh of relief when he knew no damage had been done. 

Mrs Weasley loaded his plate with more chicken and potatoes than he could ever eat, and a balding man - must be Mr Weasley, Draco noted - ladled him a modest bowl of soup. Almost all of Draco’s meals had been prepared by his family’s house elves or those in the kitchen of Hogwarts, and he was curious to see what a home-cooked dinner tasted like. He tucked in quietly, without catching the eyes he felt burning into his back. As it turned out, Mrs Weasley was an _excellent_ cook. 

Which is exactly what Draco told her, his mouth still vaguely sticky with the weight of the mashed potatoes; “You are an _excellent_ cook, Mrs Weasley.”

“Oh, well, thank you!” the plump little woman replied, beaming. She took to compliments like a fish to water, and Draco decided he ought to remember that. It would do him good if he could win her favour, if meals like this were being offered. 

“Truly magnificent,” the twin on Draco’s left chimed in, in a cheap imitation of Draco’s posh tone.

“Absolutely spectacular,” the one on his right added.

“Truly a spectacle, Molly-old-dear!”

“That’s _Mum_ to you, Fred,” Mrs Weasley narrowed her eyes at the twin in question and he snorted into his soup. Draco glanced up and saw Potter flattening his potatoes with his spoon, barely lifting the utensil to his mouth. If he wasn’t so shaken up, he would’ve teased Potter about this. Instead, he ate his food politely, dabbing his lips with a napkin. When Draco looked up to ask if he could please have seconds of the delightful roast chicken, Mrs Weasley nearly fainted.

“Do you see, boys?” she said pointedly to her brood of redheaded children, piling flaky chunks of chicken breast onto Draco’s plate, “these are manners.”

Draco smiled and thanked her and carried on eating. The twin on his left - Fred - snickered and rested his elbows on the table, chewing with loud smacking sounds. Across the table, the little Weasley girl - _Potter’s girlfriend,_ Draco thought - reining in his sneer at the last second - laughed and nearly sent her glass of milk shooting out her nose. 

When they were done their supper, Mrs Weasley brought out handmade cream puffs for pudding. Draco tucked in eagerly, covering his fingertips in a healthy coating of powdered sugar, the sweet pastry collapsing in his mouth and melting like butter. It was all he could do not to moan out loud at how delightful it was. Again, he praised the Weasley matriarch, who was beginning to look a little overwhelmed by Draco’s politeness. He supposed blood-traitors didn’t focus much on table manners. Or manners at all.

When all was said and done, Mrs Weasley ordered her brood to tidy up the dining room. Draco was astonished that they didn’t have house-elves to complete the task for them, and he made the mistake of saying so.

“House elves are slaves, Malfoy,” Granger snarled, descending on him ferociously. “They don’t _want_ to serve you. We’ve met Dobby; we know how your family treated him.”

It took Draco a moment to remember who Dobby was - the elf his family had until he was twelve, when Potter freed the damned thing. Draco had been angry at the time, but he no longer worried himself much about it. It was so many years ago, now.

What really made Draco’s blood run cold was what Dobby might have said, talking to Potter and Granger and Weasley. Nonchalantly, Draco asked, “What did he tell you about me?”

Granger blinked. “Why?”

“Just- Damn it, Granger, did he?!” 

Granger’s eyes glimmered, and she knew that Draco had a secret. She smirked but didn’t say anything more, just shaking her head. “You can dry the dishes, all right, Malfoy? I’ll wash.”

Draco had never dried dishes before. In fact, he was sure there was a spell of some kind that he could use to do it more quickly, but when he went for his wand Granger stopped him with a hand. 

“What?” he demanded, jerking his arm away like her touch burned him. 

“We do it by hand, here. Magic wreaks havoc on chinaware.”

One of the Weasleys laughed, but Draco couldn’t tell which one it was. While he cleaned, he noticed the parents still at the table. Mr Weasley had his wife’s head tucked into the small of his neck, and he was rubbing her shuddering back with his outstretched palm. It unsettled him to see near-strangers in such a fragile state such as this one, and especially kindly Mrs Weasley, who hadn’t said an unkind word to him since he came. Lupin, who was putting dry cups away in a cupboard, saw Draco staring and came over to him.

“Their son was injured in the battle,” he explained, his voice low enough that only Draco could hear. “Attacked by… by Greyback.

“Is he dead?” Draco blurted, alarmed. He remembered the body he stepped over, sprawled out on the stones. There was blood, so it made sense that it had been the werewolf. Mr Weasley heard and looked over, weary-eyed.

“No, not dead, no,” he answered, “it’s not a full moon. Bill looks a mess, however.”

Draco swallowed hard, and ignored the tears that threatened to choke him up. He had never meant for anyone but Dumbledore to be hurt, he had just wanted to save his family. And now, these innocent people, even though they were blood-traitors, could’ve lost their son. Draco looked at his hands and could almost see the blood on them. Sickened by his actions, he fled up the stairs, ignoring the calls behind him. 

#

Draco tried, but couldn’t sleep. He lay on the musty bedspread with his eyes wide open and his hand flung over his forehead. He couldn’t stop playing over the body he’d stepped over, blood leaking from it across the stones. And the look Granger shot him at dinner, and the contempt he knew the Weasleys felt for him. And Potter, refusing to eat, just picking at his food and looking absently around the table.

Guilt rolled around in Draco’s stomach and he felt vaguely nauseous. He felt sticky, sweat coating his body in a sheen of cold. He stood and stripped his robes down to just his pants, and fell back into the bed. As he tossed, the blankets tangled with his legs. He was suffocating, suffocating, and he tried to rip the blankets away desperately, only tangling himself further. Draco gasped for air, finally wrenched himself free from the bed, and stood on the rug in the centre of the room, trying to breathe. He realized he needed the toilet, and walked out from the bedroom that was in too far a state of disrepair to really be his, and was exploring the second floor when he heard the crying.

It was coming through the chimney from upstairs, a wretched, desperate crying that was trying to be muffled - by a hand or a pillow. Draco stood and listened for a time, his breath no more than a whisper, and listened. It was definitely an older man, no teenaged boy. He presumed it was either Mr Weasley or Lupin. He figured it had to be Weasley, crying about his half-werewolf son, because he couldn’t imagine a damned thing that the professor had to be worried about.

Draco went to the bathroom and did his business. When he washed his hands, he looked into the mirror. The lighting was bad in the bathroom, the flickering balls of light hanging from the ceiling illuminating the hollows in his face. He had lost weight in his sixth year, and it was showing. His hair looked dry and dead, and his cheeks were drawn in. His skin had a yellowish tone that it never used to. He splashed water on his cheeks and walked out from the bathroom - and right into Potter.

Without his glasses, Harry Potter’s eyes were somehow more striking. Even though it was dark, Draco could still see the glimmer of the bright green irises focused on him. Potter seemed to notice something and jumped back, looking away from Draco.

“Something the matter, Potter?” Draco drawled.

“You’re only wearing pants!” 

Draco looked down at his bare chest and legs, and almost laughed. His skin glowed in the dark. “Observant.”

Potter seemed at a loss for words, but kept his gaze off of Draco until he walked painfully slowly from the bathroom door and vaguely in the direction of his room. He heard a strangled fraction of a sob and stopped, fixing Potter with a stare.

“Who’s that crying up there, Potter?” he asked. “Weasley?”

Potter tilted his head like a dog, presumably to listen better, and whatever humour on his face dropped to a sober expression. He shook his head faintly. “Damn it, I forgot.”

Draco blinked. “Sorry?”

“It’s been a year, this month.”

“Since?”

“Since Lestrange killed Sirius,” Potter replied thinly.

“Aunt Bellatrix?” Draco breathed. “She killed her cousin?”

“My godfather,” Potter supplied. “My godfather, and Remus’ husband.”

Draco nearly choked. “A _man_ can’t marry a _man_ , Potter.”

Potter looked defensive, but then shrugged his shoulders. “Not legally. But they were married.”

The concept was foreign to Draco - well, not the homosexuality so much as the marriage. He couldn’t imagine a world in which two men could live together and be the perfect picture of domesticity. Especially not a _pureblood_ , a cousin of his. Draco could feel the back of his neck prickling with a heat and the nausea swelled in his gut again.

“My apologies, Potter.”

Potter ran a hand through his disastrous hair, sending it into an even more ridiculous spiky configuration. “This is my house, you know?”

“Yours?”

“Mine. Since Sirius died. I’d rather have him, but I’ve got a house-elf named Kreacher and an umbrella stand made of a troll’s leg.”

“Well… you have my face on your wall, you know. On the family tree.”

Potter’s eyes glinted. “I know.”

Draco turned towards the door to his bedroom. “Good night.”

“Wait, Malfoy-” Potter stopped him in his tracks, and Draco turned to face him. “This is my house, so don’t feel like you’re not welcome, alright? I’d like you to stay as long as you can.”

Draco nearly smiled then, but held it back. He reached out his hand to Potter in a limp wave, and pushed the bedroom door open. When he sunk into bed, the turmoil in his head had calmed enough to finally let him sleep.

So he slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Hello my old heart  
> how have you been?  
> Are you still there inside my chest?  
> I've been so worried,  
> you've been so still,  
> barely beating at all.
> 
> Oh, don't leave me here alone,  
> don't tell me how we've grown  
> for having loved for a little while.  
> Oh, I don't wanna be alone,  
> I wanna find a home  
> and I wanna share it with you."  
> -'Hello My Old Heart,' The Oh Hellos


	4. Wish I Knew You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco wears his first Muggle clothes and goes snooping at Grimmauld Place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I hope you guys like the newest instalment. I think I've got some rock-solid ideas about where to take this fic, and I think I'm planning it out well. Still, I'm the kind of writer who gets ideas in spurts, so who knows if I'll disappear again (ha). Anyways, enjoy the read and let me know what you think!

Draco woke with a dry mouth and a bolt of fear that came with the confusion of coming to in a place he didn’t recognize. He glanced out the window through the dusty drapes and remembered he was at his great-aunt Walburga’s home, the same house the belonged to Harry Potter. Draco had a hard time suppressing his contempt for the boy who lived, even though he was more than aware the debt he was in with him. 

Draco could tell it was morning because of the light streaming through the unwashed window, and decided he’d like something to eat - the growling in his stomach wanted tea and scones and heavy cream, like those in Hogwarts’ Great Hall - and dressed in his Slytherin robes before emerging into the hallway. On his way down the stairs, he studied the decapitated house-elf heads, and felt inclined to touch one before there was a sudden _crack!_ and the oldest little elf Draco had ever seen appeared in the stairwell.

“Kreacher’s mother, that is,” the miserable little creature snarled, narrowing his blue eyes at Draco, before they suddenly widened in shock. “Master Draco,” he gasped.

Draco shuddered. “Should I know you?”

“No, no, no, you wouldn’t remember… Kreacher serves the noble house of Black, met you when you was just a little one, visiting my mistress…”

This, Draco supposed, was Potter’s inherited house-elf. He was expecting something like Dobby, an eager-to-please minion of the Chosen One, and found himself pleased with this unexpected development. Before Draco could respond, the house-elf, Kreacher, had climbed down a few stairs on his knobby little legs with a renewed energy. He seemed to be singing something to himself, and Draco noted that it was perhaps the first time someone had been excited with his arrival to Grimmauld Place. 

Kreacher _crack!_ ed out of view with a final little victory-shout, and Draco walked slowly down the stairs to the kitchen. Mrs Weasley was cooking sausages in a pan whilst simultaneously directing her wand at a chopping-board humming along with some old, crooning love song. Draco supposed this time must be sacred for the Weasley matriarch and quickly made himself scarce. 

The house was dead-silent, which was startling; Draco had never seen a time so quiet in this big home. He found Lupin, who was drinking a musty-smelling tea and flipping through a photo album. Draco caught a glimpse or two of a dark-haired young man smiling for the camera, but didn’t peer over the old professor’s shoulders. Draco found a chair near the window and watched Muggles passing by, some of the younger ones with strings hanging out of their ears. He felt tempted to ask what they were but reined in his curiosity.

“Why’s everyone asleep?” Draco asked instead. 

“Asleep? No,” Lupin shook his head, “they’ve gone back to Hogwarts to finish out the term.”

Draco paused. This was news to him, and it stung that no one had asked him if he’d like to go back to his school. He knew it was likely safer that he stayed at Potter’s house, but then again, it was safer if they all remained at Grimmauld Place. Lupin seemed to sense Draco’s dissatisfaction and snapped the photo album shut. As he set it down, Draco saw its scribbled label reading ‘School ’77.’ 

“How about those clothes of Sirius’ I told you about?”

Draco remembered what Potter had told him about Sirius Black and Lupin, and the back of his neck prickled. It was still deeply unfamiliar to him, the concept that two men could be treated the same as their married friends. Draco knew, of course he knew, what it was like to have another boy’s body sweaty and slick against his. He’d fallen into Blaise’s bed one night too many, and his father had found out. Draco wondered how his father would have reacted to Sirius and Lupin. If Draco said anything in support of it all, even _mentioned_ the notion, his father’s cane would’ve found his cheekbone, or his mouth, or his eye socket, or his collarbone. He pushed the thought away and glanced up at Lupin, who was awaiting his answer.

“Yes please.”

Draco followed him idly up the stairs, a trudging journey to the fourth floor. There were only two doors at the top of the stairs, one door marked with a sign reading ‘Do Not Enter Without the Express Permission of Regulus Arcturus Black.’ They went towards the unmarked door, and before they walked through Lupin stopped in his tracks. His forehead found the aged wood, and he huffed out a breath. Draco looked away when he saw a tear making the treacherous journey over the jagged scars across the old werewolf’s face. Lupin coughed before pushing the door open.

It was the most blatant assault of Gryffindor paraphernalia Draco had ever seen, more so even than when they won the House Cup. There were red-and-gold banners hung on the now-peeling walls, and many of the posters had pulled away from their tacks. Draco was assaulted by the blatant sexuality of some of the images of Muggle biker women, and had to look away. Lupin was unfazed by the women, but his attention was clearly drawn to the moving photographs strung up by the fireplace. Many of them featured the dashing dark-haired man that Draco knew must have been his cousin, and another who would have been handsome save for the scars. There was Wormtail, too, before he grew fat and unfathomably ratlike. Draco’s eyes skimmed over those three but stopped with a halt when they reached Harry Potter’s face. 

There he was, nudging Sirius Black with his elbow and laughing loudly at something said silently between the two of them. There was something off with the eyes, though, and Draco figured out that the man in the picture was James Potter, and not Harry. 

“Let’s see what my old friend has hidden in here,” Lupin decided, peeling himself away from the photos and starting to rummage through a wardrobe. There were socks and pants, typical things one would find with the clothing. There were a couple robes, including a spectacularly blue set of blue dress robes. Beneath it all, as Lupin dug, were Muggle clothes. Draco had seen enough Muggles wandering down the street to know what each article was for, though many of Sirius’ outfits seemed to feature leather or metal studs.

“What is this?” Draco demanded, pinching a soft strip of fabric between his long fingers.

“Sirius’ scarf,” Lupin told him, taking the article and laughing quietly. “He loved this damned thing.”

It seemed out of place in all of the black and metal, the soft yellow scarf that had obviously been hand-knitted with care.

“It doesn’t seem to match with the rest of his garb,” Draco pointed out, and Lupin smiled.

“He kept it because I made it for him. Third year.” Lupin draped the scarf around his own neck and drew out a pair of ripped blue trousers. “These are jeans,” he added, and passed them to Draco.

Draco, whose every article of clothing was obsessively fretted over and mended. He could hardly believe someone would choose to wear something so horribly ripped if they had the money to afford other things. 

“Why did he wear Muggle clothes at all?” 

“Sirius fancied himself a punk, in our Hogwarts days,” Lupin began, and then realized that his explanation created more questions than answers. “It was a movement. Involved all the leather and torn-up denim.”

Sated, Draco’s hands joined Lupin’s in the drawer as they pulled out potential choices for Draco. There was a handful of buttoned shirts, and some softer ones with images of different bands on them. The shirt Draco felt drawn to was a low-scooping black shirt in ridiculously soft material. He piled it atop the jeans and looked at the outfit. It was rather plain, but Draco liked it.

Lupin pulled out a leather jacket, and Draco could not shake his head hard enough.

#

Once he’d changed from his school robes to the torn-up jeans (he had to roll them up at the ankles so he wouldn’t trip all over) and shirt, Draco felt rather odd. He’d never once in his life worn Muggle clothes before, and this was a complete culture-shock. There was no dramatic, flowing fabric trailing behind him when he turned a corner, no heavy sleeves dragging across the table as he tried to help himself to seconds of Mrs Weasley’s pudding that evening. Mr Weasley was away at work, and all the students were at their school to finish out the term. That left only Lupin and another relation of Draco’s - his first cousin, Nymphadora Tonks.

He’d been told to call her Tonks.

She was the woman with the hair that changed brilliant colours, the same he’d seen at dinner his first night at Grimmauld Place. 

Other guests came and went, but Lupin and Tonks and Mrs Weasley were at the house almost always. Draco wasn’t allowed to go outside except to take the trash to the bin, and he relished that part of the day. It was painfully dark in the house, and he was so _bored_. On the day of Albus Dumbledore’s funeral, Draco found himself wracked with guilt again, as he watched everyone file from the house and disappear down the street. He was to be alone for the entire day until the entire crowd returned - Potter and all the Weasleys would be coming back to the house, and Mrs Weasley wasn’t going to cook much of anything, since the tone after the headmaster’s funeral was bound to be rather dismal.

Draco did the only thing he could think to do: he started exploring the house. The house-elf had busied himself with cleaning the sitting room upstairs, and Draco was starved for company. His first order of business was to figure out what was behind the curtain in the hallway. Dressed in Sirius Black’s worn clothes, Draco slunk through the corridors. In the entrance hall, he stood before the closed curtains and stared at them, wondering what would be hiding behind them. He took a breath and flung them open. 

The torrent of screaming started the moment he did, but stopped within a couple moments. The voice that had been screeching its laments about blood-traitors in the house softened, and Draco recognized the house’s owner - his great-aunt Walburga.

“Draco, darling!” the portrait cooed, pushing her soft black hair behind her ears. “Oh, what a sight for sore eyes you are, someone who can hold up the honour of our family. Where is your mother, dear?”

Draco blinked. This was his great-aunt in a much younger state than he’d ever seen, and he realized she’d been pretty once. It was shocking, because he’d known her as a bitter old crone who was rarely fond of anybody. He had to think for a moment, recovering from being startled and then decided to answer his great-aunt.

“She’s with Father.”

Walburga curled her lip - she’d never been the biggest fan of Lucius, but she was good at keeping it to herself when Narcissa was around. “And where are they? Why are you in this house, when it’s stinking with Mudblood filth?”

Draco’s nails dug into his palms. He knew the slur well, and he sometimes called Granger that in his head. He was trying to curb the habit, but was finding it hard to break. A lifetime of the word being drilled into his mind had conditioned him to say it. “I live with them now, Auntie.”

Young, beautiful Walburga nearly choked. “Don’t tell me you’re a blood traitor, too! Not you, Draco, not you!” 

She began an unintelligible stream of anguished wailing that distressed Draco so deeply that he shut the curtains with a flick of his wrists and fell to the floor, panting. He was rattled, and took a couple minutes to regain his composure before deciding he might find something a little less disturbing to snoop around in. Naturally, he decided on the basement.

At Grimmauld Place, as with many old houses, the basement was packed with old family heirlooms and artifacts. Draco wasn’t particularly afraid of the dark, or so he told himself, so he pushed bravely through the door. 

“Lumos,” he whispered, but the glow of his wand-tip did little to cut through the powerful gloom of the basement. The darkness seemed to envelop him like a blanket, and the deeper he went, the mustier the smell was. It was clear the basement had not been breached in quite a long time, and he started to poke around with his free hand as objects came into view. There were boxes of old china and water stained books, among some outdated robes that Draco thought would be rather funny costumes should the Weasleys decide to start an acting troupe.

Then, beneath the stairs, Draco found a quilt that had clearly seen the bad end of a curse, but he was more interested in what it was hiding. When he pulled the fabric aside, he found a stack of portraits of varying sizes. He noticed that most of them contained Sirius, from the smallest little black-haired baby to an indignant fifteen-year-old wearing Gryffindor robes and a sneer. A couple of the portraits were empty, and Draco had to wonder where they’d wandered off to. The oldest one of Sirius he could find was the teenaged one in the Gryffindor robes, and he picked it up from its spot on the floor. As he started to brush the dust away, the Sirius-portrait started to cough. 

“What is it?” Draco asked, looking down at the picture.

“Nothin’,” Sirius replied, with a cheeky little smile. “Who are you?”

“A cousin,” Draco replied, ignoring the smile and setting the portrait down to lean against the wall. “You’re a portrait.”

Sirius in the portrait rolled his eyes. “Duh. Why are you wearing my clothes?”

“Lupin gave them to me.”

“Remus?” Sirius perked up like a dog being offered a treat. “Is he here?”

“Not at present,” Draco answered. “But he’s here a lot.”

The young Sirius Black in the portrait made a quiet little sighing noise and started chewing on the sleeve of his robe, staring intensely. Draco started to sweat under his gaze, trying to remind himself that this was just a portrait. 

“Where am I?” Sirius asked, idly, and Draco realized he was going to have to answer. Whether he lied or told the truth, he’d need to provide something. He couldn’t leave this question hanging, but Draco didn’t _know_ where Sirius was. He knew it had been Aunt Bellatrix who killed him, but that was all he’d been told. He wasn’t the right person to do this. Sirius took in his internal struggle with an increasingly desperate look in his eyes until he put the pieces of the puzzle together himself. “Oh.”

Draco was struggling against tears, which was rather stupid because he had no business feeling Sirius’ emotions for him. “I’m sorry,” he croaked.

The portrait collected himself rather well, all things considered, and young Sirius cleared his throat. He stiffened his spine and narrowed his eyes at Draco. “Are you with Re now?”

“ _Me?_ ” Draco squeaked. “No, goodness, no.”

“Are you sure?” the portrait demanded, unconvinced.

“He’s a little old for me,” Draco explained. “Twenty years too old.”

Sirius’ eyes glittered. “Old Moony. Woulda paid to see that.”

“You do- You did?” Draco shook his head, confused. “Should I hang you in the upstairs hall so he might see you when he comes back?”

Draco could see the yearning on the portrait’s face, the aching in his cousin’s eyes as he stared off behind Draco’s shoulder. There was a long, strained silence. “How long have I been dead?” the young painting of Sirius finally asked, pushing a strand of hair behind his ear.

“A year, I think.”

Sirius took a second to think, and then, wordlessly, shook his head. There was another long, silent period before he added: “I think you’d better take me out back and set the portrait on fire.”

Draco was a little horrified for a moment, and he thought of saying no. He knew, logically, that it was just a portrait, and that the real Sirius was dead and gone. Still, he couldn’t help but feel like burning the painting would be a murder. The hesitation led to a full-blown argument in the basement, with Draco knelt on the floor and shouting at the portrait of Sirius indignantly. He refused over and over, but Sirius was adamant. Draco caved. 

The smoke was just clearing when the group returned home from Dumbledore’s funeral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I wish I knew you when I was young  
> We could've got so high  
> Now we're here it's been so long  
> Two strangers in the bright lights  
> Oh I hope you don't mind  
> We can share my mood yeah  
> Two strangers in the bright lights  
> I wish I knew you  
> I wish I knew you  
> Oh I wish I knew you when I was young."  
> -'Wish I Knew You,' The Revivalists


	5. Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco notices Lupin's new love interest, tries to help with housework, and does his best to mend fences with Ronald Weasley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the shorter chapter this time - life's crazy business for me right now. I got into all three of the universities I applied to (and I just heard back from my top choice this week!), I'm starting a new diet, and I'm spending a lot of time with friends. I'll still do my best to write (it helps that my mom's been asking me about my "fans" who read my "stories." Duly, we had a conversation yesterday about whether Draco Malfoy is a top or a bottom. I'm a hardcore bottom-Draco guy, and my mom is 100% on my side with that. "He's just overcompensating outside of the bedroom.")

When Draco went to the hall to meet with everyone, the Weasley children seemed shocked by his sudden transformation, what with the Muggle clothes. The youngest Weasley, the girl, had red-rimmed eyes that were puffier than the rest, and he started to look around for Potter. He noticed, with a start, that the Chosen One was nowhere to be found. He couldn’t bring himself to pose the question, but he knew Lupin could tell he was thinking it. Lupin - Draco was momentarily drawn back to the Sirius portrait. He wondered what would have happened if he introduced that portrait to the older version of its boyfriend - what a shock that would have been. Burning the portrait had been nothing short of traumatic, though its subject refused to scream or even grimace the entire time. Draco had chosen to look away.

Draco fell onto the seat by the window again with a mug of fruity tea, and he was about to crack open one of Lupin’s books left strewn around when his cousin, Tonks, fell into the seat beside him. Draco had heard talk that she was a Metamorphmagus, and he wondered if that was her real face. She did share some features with his mother, so he assumed not. The bright pink hair was a little off-putting, though.

“Hiya, cousin,” she said cheerfully, as if forgetting that his family were Death Eaters. It seemed like everyone at Grimmauld Place had been ignoring him or putting up a front of politeness; yet, his cousin seemed to be doing neither. She had been nothing but pleasant to him over the last few days without their normal company, though Draco could tell she’d been falling at Lupin’s side at every chance. He wondered if it would be terribly out of place to warn her that the werewolf was incredibly bent.

“Hello,” Draco replied stiffly, setting the book down and eyeing his cousin over his teacup. “How was the funeral?”

Tonks sobered (something that happened rarely) and nodded. “Did Dumbledore justice, I think.”

She didn’t mention the fact that Draco had meant to kill the old sap. Instead, she reached her hands out for his teacup and took a long drink before he could even raise a protest. Tonks was interesting, at the very least, and he appreciated her inability to be boring. 

“Where’s Potter?” Draco finally mustered up the courage to ask.

Tonks winced. “Bit of bad luck, that. Harry broke it off with the Weasley girl, and he decided to move back on in with his aunt and uncle for the rest of the summer. Safer, too, I reckon, since there’s still the charm on him ’til he’s of age and all…”

Tonks carried on talking, but Draco had a hard time keeping up after he heard that Potter and Weasley had split. It was pretty clear to him why - there had to be some sort of noble, selfless reason, some idea that severing his tie with Weasley would protect her in some way. Draco sincerely doubted, however, that he’d ended any friendships. Potter was noble, but he was a damned idiot. 

Draco checked back into reality when Lupin came into the room, looking worn-down. Tonks perked up and leapt into conversation with him. For once, Draco noticed, Lupin actually looked… interested? He had to admit to himself he was surprised that Lupin could switch from a man to a woman, not by choice. Draco’s entire life, he’d known he’d have to put his interest in men deep within himself in order to continue on the Malfoy name, but now this was looking less and less like his reality. He wondered if he’d find a man, then, who’d interest him. Blaise was all in good fun, but he wasn’t someone worth “marrying.”

Draco left the room and went off in search of new company, bored by Tonks’ courting display. Kreacher was standing under Auntie Walburga’s portrait, staring at the shut curtains with longing, and paid no attention to Draco walking by. Upstairs, Draco found Mrs Weasley in the drawing room, cleaning the windows and humming to herself. When he cleared his throat, she turned around on her heel with a little squeak of surprise. Based on the state of the carpet, the room had been neglected for a little while, and Mrs Weasley was determined to fix it up again. 

“I did ask my children for their help,” she explained, pushing her mass of red hair out of her round little face, “but when I ask, they all seem to have something better to busy themselves with.”

Draco almost laughed, and shook his head. “Well, cleaning doesn’t sound all that pleasant, Mrs Weasley. Is there anything I could do to help?”

She was momentarily speechless, but she asked Draco if he couldn’t work at finding a spell to clean out whatever mysterious substance had stuck itself to the carpet. He wasn’t the best with charms, but resolved himself to try. Mrs Weasley kept humming as she went around the room with her wand-arm extended, and Draco started to think up whatever spell he could to clean the carpet. 

He’d placed maybe his third ineffective charm when Granger appeared in the doorway, wearing a woollen jumper boasting a large ‘H,’ and a narrow glare aimed at Draco. She slid her wand from her pocket, whispered her spell under her breath, and blasted the stain Draco had been working on in one fell swoop. If nothing else, the Mudblood was good with her charms, if she- Draco cut off his train of thought, and reminded himself not to call her a Mudblood. 

“Oh, thank you, Hermione, dear,” Mrs Weasley cooed, and it was all Draco could do not to roll his eyes. He’d meant to impress Mrs Weasley, to convince at least one member of the family not to hate him. He was fairly certain he had no chance with the Weasley patriarch, with all the bad blood between him and Draco’s father. Granger had effectively stolen his one chance at gaining Mrs Weasley’s affection.

“Why aren’t you back with your parents?” Draco demanded, thoroughly curious. If Potter had gone back with his Muggle family, it only made sense that Granger should have done the same. 

Granger didn’t seem to want to talk to Draco about any of this, but she matter-of-factly strode up to Mrs Weasley, sent another scathing glare Draco’s way, and asked, “Is there anything else I can help you with, Mrs Weasley?”

Draco’s blood boiled, and he left the room before he could get any angrier. In the hallway, one of the older Weasley brothers - Draco had no idea what his name was - wandered past with half a roll in his mouth and his long hair tied at the back of his neck. When he saw Draco staring, he flashed a grin.

“How’s it going, then?” 

“Um… _well_ , thank you,” Draco mumbled, fascinated. There was no tense, forced politeness with this Weasley. He seemed rather fixated on finishing his bread, but he stopped in front of Draco and met his eye.

“Don’t think we’ve met,” Weasley replied, swallowing past his bite, “I’m Charlie.”

Draco knew he still probably wouldn’t be able to keep it straight. “How many of you _are_ there?”

Charlie laughed. “Bill, me, Percy, Fred, George, Ron, Ginny. Don’t worry if you don’t remember - it took me years to tell the twins apart.”

When Draco smiled, it felt easy. “I don’t believe I’ll ever get it right. The twins, I mean.”

“They certainly don’t make it any easier to, with all the pranks.” Charlie finished the rest of his roll, and then eyed Draco. “D’you reckon you want to play a little Quidditch with me? I haven’t played in ages.”

Draco perked up, and wilted just as quickly. “I would, but I’m forbidden to go outside except to take the trash out to the bin.”

“Raincheck, then? Mum said we’ll all be moving back to the Burrow before Bill’s wedding.”

“Bill?”

Charlie bared his teeth and did a feeble sort of clawing at the air. “The kind-of-werewolf.”

“He’s getting married?”

“That’s right, end of July. At Mum and Dad’s place. I’ll bet you’re invited to come, so long as you don’t threaten to Death-Eater us all.” Draco bristled, and it was clear Charlie sensed the shift. “Joking. I trust you well enough. I’ll talk to Mum, make sure you’ll come. There’s going to be cake.”

And then, like cake was the answer to every problem, Charlie clapped Draco on the shoulder and walked off up the stairs, leaving Draco in a slightly confused, but satisfied, state. 

#

Draco had thought himself starved for company before, but it was nothing compared to when Granger left and most of the Weasleys had packed and left for the Burrow. The only people left at the house were Tonks, Lupin, Ginny, Ron, and Mrs Weasley. People were leaving Grimmauld Place in small groups so as not to be detected, and for almost a week Draco was forced to seek out Potter’s best friend, or his girlfriend, should he want company his age. The worst part was that the Weaslette seemed determined to be at least somewhat amicable, which nearly drove Draco out of Grimmauld Place and into the streets. She asked him about Quidditch, told him stories, and offered to share candies from a little paper bag she sometimes carried around the house. This was all well and good, Draco supposed, since he could hide away from the Weasleys in his borrowed bedroom. 

Things were going positively fine until they reached the Burrow, and Draco learned he would be sharing a bedroom with the youngest Weasley son. The few belongings he had were slung over his shoulder in a hand-me-down bag, and he stood in Ronald’s doorway with stiff shoulders. Ron - for Draco’d resolved to call him that in his head, since all the Weasleys around was making it impossible for him to keep straight - was throwing piles of rumpled clothing and old candy packaging into a corner to make room for the blankets Mrs Weasley had brought up for Draco. It was clear Ron was just as unhappy with this arrangement. 

He fell into his bed with a huff. “S’alright, then, Malfoy, you can settle in.”

Draco unlocked his joints and quietly started to set up his bed. He could feel the eyes of the Chudley Cannons team on him from the brightly-coloured posters on the walls, and Draco started to wonder why anyone would choose to represent a team that failed so often. It was maybe ten minutes of stiff silence before Draco decided to extend the olive branch.

“You like Quidditch then, do you, Weasley?”

Ron looked away from the heavily-illustrated tome he was reading from and glanced down at the heap of Malfoy on the floor. “Do I?” he snorted, looking around at all his posters. “I play on the Gryffindor team, or d’you forget your song from fifth year?”

Admittedly, it took Draco a moment to remember. When he did, he flushed with shame. “Oh.”

“What was it called, again?” Weasley asked, making it clear he knew.

Drawing it out.

“‘ _Weasley is Our King,_ ’” Draco mumbled. His cheeks were hot. He was starting to wish he’d never started up a conversation.

“How’d it go?”

Draco shook his head, but he knew Weasley wasn’t going to drop it. The tension in the room could have been cut with a knife. Ron’s eyes never left him, not even for a moment, and the look was more intense than it’d ever been. Quietly, Draco blurted out the first lines of that song he’d wrote with Pansy. He was fifteen when he’d done it, just another way to taunt Potter and his lackeys. It was never meant to last this long in Weasley’s mind. 

“Got Harry and my brothers booted from the team, you know.” Draco knew, of course he knew. He’d been kissing Umbridge’s ass all of fifth year. “Fat and ugly, you called my mum. Said my dad was worthless.”

Draco didn’t know what sort of response Weasley was looking for, but he said what he felt needed to be said. “I’m sorry, Weasley.”

The apology was obviously not expected, and Ron blinked. “You’re what?”

“It was a childish song. I’m sorry I ever wrote it,” Draco looked up through his eyelashes and offered a smile. “And you proved us wrong, didn’t you? Gryffindor won the Cup.”

Weasley actually smiled then, a cocky little grin he had to fight to get off his face. Draco laid back against his blankets, most of the tension dissipated. It was strange - making friends was remarkably easily in this redheaded clan. The last person he’d ever thought he’d persuade to like him was Ron, but here they were, sharing a bedroom and joking about fifth year. Draco doubted he’d manage the same feat with Granger.

There was a ghoul clanking around in the attic, but Draco barely heard it. He was tired, and content. It was easy to fall asleep in the pile of blankets, without fear for the first time in at least a year. Draco listened to the steady sound of Ron’s breathing, and wondered if he was a terrible person for being thankful that the war had freed him from his father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Good time for a change  
> See, the luck I've had  
> Can make a good man  
> Turn bad.
> 
> So please please please  
> Let me, let me, let me  
> Let me get what I want  
> This time.
> 
> Haven't had a dream in a long time  
> See, the life I've had  
> Can make a good man bad.
> 
> So for once in my life  
> Let me get what I want  
> Lord knows, it would be the first time  
> Lord knows, it would be the first time."  
> -'Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want,' The Smiths


	6. Creep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco joins a ramshackle Weasley Quidditch team, shoves his foot into his mouth, and deals with some Dark Mark issues.

Draco found it strange, doing housework and dealing with a completely normal family dynamic. He was entirely unfamiliar with the gentle teasing and roughhousing that came with brothers, and more than once he was startled when the twins would fall onto Ron, pushing him around. All it did was remind Draco of his father, and it would send an involuntary shudder down his spine before he managed to rein in the thoughts.

It was a glorious, mid-July day, when Charlie decided to finally cash in his raincheck and ask Draco to play Quidditch. It was all Draco could do not to jump up and down excitedly. There couldn’t’ve been a better day for a match, and it got him out of helped Mrs Weasley with the wedding decorations. Draco had seen the bride-to-be a few times, and found her beauty too showy. He couldn’t understand how she ended up with a Weasley, because no amount of charm could make that flaming red hair desirable.

Still, Draco appreciated them more than he was comfortable expressing. After nearly two weeks sharing a room with Ron, they had sunken into a rocky camaraderie. It seemed that Quidditch could heal any rift within this family, and Draco had managed to tentatively befriend both of the twins, Charlie, and even the Weaslette (though, less so, because he thought bitter thoughts about her far too much) through conversations about previous World Cups.

“Here you are, Malfoy,” Charlie said cheerily, pushing a broom into Draco’s chest and effectively snapping him out of his thoughts. “That’s Bill’s old broom.”

Draco looked down on it. He’d never seen a broomstick in such poor shape before, and it lacked all of the aerodynamics and aesthetics of, say, his Nimbus or a Firebolt. It was probably as old as the brooms the first-years trained on at Hogwarts. Charlie could clearly sense the hesitation.

“It’s the best we can do.”

Draco shrugged. “A broom is merely a tool. A true player can succeed with any broom.”

Weasley cocked a grin, and Ron came running outside just then. He snapped up another one of their dilapidated broomsticks and swung his leg over it, zipping into the air before he was properly seated. One of the twins - Draco would never be able to tell who - had a Quaffle, and tossed it up to them before joining the crowd in the air. Shoddy teams were split up - Charlie, Draco, and Ron versus the twins and the Weaslette. The moment they started their silly, half-Quidditch game, Draco was amazed with the youngest Weasley. She moved through the air like a bird, twisting out of the grip of the others and scoring the first point in their match (the goals were toilet seats the twins had enchanted to hover in the air). Draco had seen Ginny Weasley in action on the Gryffindor team before, but hadn’t watched her so closely before. 

Ron was Keeper for their three-man team, and he was holding up quite well against his sister’s relentless attempts. He really had gained skill since fifth year, during the era of ‘Weasley is Our King.’ Part of the way through the match, when a particularly spectacular smack sent the Quaffle from the goals Ron was defending straight through one on the other team, Draco couldn’t help himself. In a loud, boasting voice, Draco began: “Weasley is our King, Weasley is our King!”

The twins’ shoulders slammed him on either side, turning him into a Weasley sandwich. “Which one?”

“Which what?” Draco demanded.

“Which Weasley?”

Draco laughed. “I guess the song doesn’t hold so much gravity on a team full of Weasleys,” he joked, glancing up to catch Ron’s eyes. The look on his face was enough to tell him that the gesture had meant more than he anticipated. Draco grinned easily, and Ronald smiled back. It was a glorious afternoon until Mrs Weasley came outside to break up the fun, declaring it was time for dinner, and help crafting some paper flowers as decorations. Draco wouldn’t have minded helping her if he wasn’t having so much fun, but as the Weasley children began to touch down, he joined them on the ground.

Dinner was simple, only soup and bread. Draco didn’t mind, since it was still quality fare. As he ate, he looked around the table. Mr Weasley was eating with them, which had been happening less and less. He was constantly called to the Ministry to help with matters revolving around the Dark Lord. Draco tried to think about it as little as possible, but he was fretting near-constantly about his mother. Every time he saw Mr Weasley he begged for more news about his parents, but there was little to be known. 

“How was work today, Dad?” Charlie asked dutifully, setting down his roll.

Mr Weasley sighed. “There are more disappearances than ever, I’m afraid.”

“Anyone you know?”

Draco’s arm itched. He resisted the urge to scratch it, because he didn’t want to bring any more attention to the Mark burned there - especially not when it was black like this. Sometimes, when the Dark Lord spent his days more calmly, the inky Mark would fade and resemble more a scar. Draco hated that it was bound to his body, and hated it especially because he knew the Dark Lord was up to something sinister at this very moment. 

Draco tried to focus on the conversation, sincerely, but the itch progressed from a tingle to a mild burning sensation. He bit his lip until his mouth tasted like metal, but the paint as growing unbearable. It felt like a burning hot poker was being pressed to his skin, a feeling not entirely unfamiliar to him. He stood up abruptly, his chair screeching across the floor before falling to its side. The conversations at the table fell silent. 

“You all right, Malfoy?” Ron asked, but Draco could hardly hear. Mrs Weasley stood helplessly as Draco stumbled away from the kitchen and into the living room, the furthest he could get before the burning in his arm was all he could think about. Draco had to suppress a scream of agony. He writhed on the sofa a moment, his nails seeking purchase on his forearm like he could tear the Mark right off if he tried hard enough.

Just as quickly as the pain appeared, it was gone. It faded to a dull throb, and he laid there panting until Ron came in. He looked a little sheepish, but Draco could see the genuine concern.

“What _was_ that?”

“The Dark Lord… he’s summoning me…” Draco rubbed his arm and watched the back go a little greyer. Now that the pain was gone, he felt rather silly for throwing a scene. 

“What for?”

Draco laughed hollowly. “How am I supposed to know that?”

“Are you going to answer?”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

Ron flapped his hands helplessly. “I don’t know! You could, couldn’t you?”

“If I press mine with my wand, it’ll summon him here.”

Ron’s eyes widened, and he blinked. “What? Do the members of the Order know that?”

“You don’t trust me anymore, Weasley?”

“Don’t take it that way, mate,” Ron replied apologetically, “but, you know - it feels like a great bloody risk to take.”

“I imagine most of them know what a Dark Mark does,” Draco told him gently, but he couldn’t help but agree with Ron’s sentiment. It was a tremendous risk to take to shelter Draco when he could have summoned the Dark Lord at any moment, and he could have had Potter killed the first night. Draco was forever grateful that they had had such a lapse in judgment - especially that first night, because of the look on Potter’s face when he saw Draco in his underthings.

When Weasley was sure Draco was alright, he and Draco both made their ways up to bed. Ron made a comment about missing Granger, who’d gone back to her Muggle family until Bill and Fleur’s wedding. Weasley missed Granger, and Draco missed Potter. The moment Draco thought it that way, he felt nauseous. The way he felt about Potter was incomparable to whatever sort of feelings Weasley had for Granger. 

With Weasley and Granger, there was so little _question_ in the matter. Weasley liked girls, and Granger liked boys. If Weasley timed it right, a well-placed move could make Granger all his. Draco knew that nothing he could do, no matter how charismatic or well-timed, would persuade Harry Potter to date a boy. Hell, there was no way he even fancied blokes. And then there was the rivalry, the reason Draco had been able to convince himself, for years, that his obsession with Potter was one of intense hatred. And then there was the rivalry, which had seemed to dissolve after Dumbledore’s death. 

Ron was talking in the background of all of this, complaining that the war was going to really put a damper on Quidditch. 

“Is that your main concern?”

“Huh?” Ron tore himself from his rant, and Draco could see his shadow move in the darkness of the bedroom.

“Is your main concern that the war’s going to interrupt the Quidditch season?”

There was a long moment of silence before Ron spoke. “No, course not.”

“Are you afraid?” Draco asked, in a measured voice that he had to force.

“Of?”

“This whole situation, Weasley. The Dark Lord.”

“We call him You-Know-Who - us non-Death-Eaters, you know,” Ron joked.

“Do you always deflect in this way?”

Ron snorted and rolled over to face the wall. “I don’t have to talk to you about this, Malfoy. G’night.”

Draco’s forearm ebbed with a ghost of the pain from earlier, and it kept him awake. He was terrified it’d flare up like it had - he was even more afraid the Dark Lord was going to try and summon him directly. At dinner, that had been a general summons - he was looking for whatever Death Eaters could answer the call. If Draco was called directly, it would be tenfold worse. It had only happened once, and he’d nearly blacked out from the pain.

Draco shut his eyes, but sleep refused to come. He stared through the soft shadows of Ron’s bedroom, listening to the ghoul moaning in the attic, and trying to distract himself from the pain that refused to flee his arm. Hours passed, and he was awake to watch the sun rise and cut through the gloom in the bedroom. Draco was out of bed at first light, demanding Mrs Weasley give him some task to help with. He was given the very important job of setting the table for all of the Weasley children. 

“Make sure you set two more places than usual, dear. Bill and Fleur are coming to stay until the wedding,” Mrs Weasley explained, all the while beating pancake batter in a ridiculously oversized mixing bowl. Draco still hadn’t been invited, and he was starting to think that perhaps the Weasleys didn’t want him there. He was disappointed, since he rather missed parties.

“When is that, again?” he asked mildly.

“The first of August - right after Harry’s birthday.”

Potter’s birthday - Draco would be a liar if he claimed he hadn’t already known when it was. Still, he’d forgotten. It was out-of-place for birthdays to even exist in a time like this, and it occurred to him that his birthday, which was only last month, had been a rather dismal affair. The plan with the vanishing cupboards was coming to a head, and the pressure had been on him to kill Dumbledore once and for all. Mrs Weasley flicked her wand over Draco’s shoulder, and music erupted from a little radio perched on a shelf.

Celestina Warbeck’s familiar voice came crackling through. They caught the tail end of ‘You Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me,’ and Mrs Weasley sang along happily with the last bit of the chorus. Draco smiled.

“Mother used to listen to her, when I was young.”

“Well, what witch our age didn’t?” Mrs Weasley replied cheerily. “I used to listen to her day and night when Arthur first asked me out.”

Draco tried to imagine a world in which Arthur Weasley was young and attractive, someone who could induce swooning and obsessive Celestina-Warbeck-listening. He supposed time really hadn’t been kind to the patriarch, but they seemed happy enough. 

Mrs Weasley had started to fry the pancakes, and the smell filling the kitchen made Draco’s mouth water. He started to wonder if he could sneak a pancake without Mrs Weasley noticing, when another redhead walked through the door. He had scars marring his face, and Draco was reminded of just how demented Greyback was. Bill Weasley walked in to kiss his mother on the cheek, and it was then that Draco noticed the woman hovering in the doorway. She had hair of a similar shade of blonde to his own, and dark blue eyes that caught his instantly. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Fleur,” Draco said politely, extending his hand as he approached her. She took it and pulled Draco towards her, kissing one cheek and then the next.

“Zat is me, and you are?” she smiled politely and glanced over quickly at her fiancé. 

“Draco. Draco Malfoy.”

“‘Ow do you know ze Weasleys?”

“Um… it’s quite a long story.”

“Well, are you coming to our wedding?” she asked, making it a clear invitation.

“I think I’d rather love that,” Draco agreed.

Fleur patted his shoulder and drifted from the doorway to greet her mother-in-law-to-be. She was still as breathtaking as ever, but Draco couldn’t help feeling unimpressed. Snidely, he figured that if he ever needed proof he fancied boys, he need only look at Fleur - most men would fall to their knees in front of her. Draco only felt a mild fondness.

“Zere is still ze plan to collect Harry on Saturday, _oui_?” Fleur asked Mrs Weasley, and Draco suddenly tuned in.

“What’s that, now?” he demanded. 

Mrs Weasley coloured. “Don’t fuss over it, dear.”

Draco bristled, and he knew at once that things were being hidden from him in the Burrow. There was a plan to take Potter from his aunt and uncle’s house this coming Saturday, and he’d not heard about it once.

“Could I not be an asset?” Draco demanded, reining in the anger that boiled under his skin. “What do you expect of me? Shall I just sit around and do nothing while the rest of you go off and fight the Dark Lord?”

Mrs Weasley shook her head. “It’s not up to me. The Order decided it was too much of a risk to involve you in this.”

“And what do _you_ think?” Draco snarled, clearly accusatory.

“It’s - it’s nothing about _you_ , dear. I’ve found you to be a perfect gentleman since you’ve joined us here, but… but the Order hasn’t gotten a chance to know you, and they really can’t afford to take that sort of risk.” Mrs Weasley approached Draco, a hand ready to put over his own to comfort him, but he jerked away before she could touch him.

“Lovely to know that betraying my family just lands me in a group of blood-traitors that don’t even trust me!” he snarled. 

The moment the words were out of Draco’s mouth, he regretted them. Mrs Weasley looked like she’d been slapped across the mouth, and he didn’t take any time to see the reactions of the other two in the room. He bolted out of the front door and made his way over to the chicken coop, where he could watch the hens clucking in their dumb, fearless little way. Draco was convinced chickens live a much better life than wizards, and almost wished he was one.

There was a stretch of at least a quarter hour where Draco was left alone, but after that he saw Fleur emerging from the front door and heading his direction. She had a basket slung around her elbow and she moved with a practiced grace that Draco wondered if he could emulate. He squared his shoulders, expecting to be talked down to, but she walked past him and unlocked the door of the chicken coop, instead. Fleur stepped delicately over the chicken droppings and bent over to retrieve an egg. The silence was deafening, and Draco couldn’t handle it anymore.

“I shouldn’t have said that!” he blurted. Fleur turned. “I shouldn’t have! I swear, every time I get one of the blasted Weasleys to like me, I just make them mad again!”

Fleur set the basket down in a corner and walked out of the coop, latching the the door carefully behind her. She studied Draco for a moment, and then sat down in the grass beside him.

“You know, Mrs Weasley did not like me for a very long time.”

“ _You_?” Draco asked incredulously. “What’s there not to like about you?”

Fleur’s laugh tinkled. “I do not know! I think she thought I was too, ah, ‘ow do you say? Superfish…?”

“Superficial?”

“Yes, zat. But I think I ‘ave proved to her zat I love Bill… even if he ‘as been mauled by a werewolf. Zere will be a day you will convince zhem all of your merits, _non_?” Fleur smiled with finality, patted Draco’s knee, and returned to the coop to collect the rest of the eggs. Draco thought about what she had said, and he decided she was right. He was too quick to anger, and not one to listen. As Fleur emerged from the coop with her basket of eggs, he stood, steeled himself, and returned to the Burrow to apologize to Mrs Weasley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "When you were here before  
> Couldn't look you in the eye  
> You're just like an angel  
> Your skin makes me cry.
> 
> You float like a feather  
> In a beautiful world  
> And I wish I was special  
> You're so fuckin' special.
> 
> But I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo.  
> What the hell am I doing here?  
> I don't belong here."  
> -'Creep,' Radiohead


	7. What I'm Doing Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco is declined Order information, spends some quality time with Fleur, and learns a horrifying fact about his wedding disguise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter. A new semester's starting up and I'm getting pretty busy. Before we start this chapter off, I'd like to throw down some dedications to some readers who've encouraged me to continue writing this. 
> 
> First, to MagicalWinry: I always look forward to your insightful, detailed comments every chapter. You were the first person to leave a comment on this fic, and it means SO MUCH to have you take the time to dictate your thoughts about it. So much love for you, honey. <3 (P.S. You're too clever for your own good, guessing what direction I'm taking the wedding scenes.)
> 
> Second, to lexosaurus: Though I do encourage criticism (even the negative kind), seeing you feel strongly enough about my writing to respond to a critical comment does mean a lot. You've commented on a few chapters, and it is always glaringly positive. When I see your name pop up, I know I'm going to get a little burst of inspiration or encouragement to keep on writing. 
> 
> Last, but certainly not least, to yellowlua: You and MagicalWinry both guessed what disguise Draco was going to take for Bill and Fleur's wedding, but you actually gave me a really great idea (you know what scene you were talking about, but I'm putting this at the beginning of the chapter so I won't put a spoiler here) that I plan on using. I'll credit you in the chapter it does occur, but I'd like to thank you for your really sweet comment and your interest in this fic. Means the world.
> 
> Thank you to everybody who takes the time to engage with this fanfiction in various different ways. Every bookmark, kudos, and comment means a TON to me. We write fanfiction for free, and we never know if it's going to be any good. I hope everyone's enjoying it so far, and feel free to comment your heart out. I love that shit <3

Since Draco had found out that Potter would be joining them again soon, the following days passed in a state of near-constant anxiety. He chased every member of the Order he saw and demanded he be added in the rescue mission, but lips remained sealed and it was clear that no one really trusted him much further than they could throw him. Draco resigned himself to sulking around the Burrow, which displeased most of the Quidditch-hungry Weasleys who were ready for another go to relieve the tension bubbling within the confines of the Weasleys’ home. Even Charlie couldn’t snap Draco out of his hiding-away, which was really saying something; Draco had grown rather fond of him.

It was Wednesday when Granger showed up, with red-rimmed eyes and a sniffle. She catapulted herself into Ron’s arms and stayed there for a ridiculously long time for people who claimed to just be ‘friends.’ Draco sighed - Gryffindors and their inability to get over themselves and find a partner. Slytherins would never do this sort of dance.

Thursday, Lupin and Tonks arrived, bearing news: they were married. Tonks did an excited little dance and brandished her wedding band in the face of anyone who’d look, while Lupin looked on forlornly from the doorway. He didn’t look nearly as excited as Draco thought a newlywed man should be, but perhaps he just wasn’t the sort to get so excited.

“Going around my family tree, are you?” Draco asked snidely, coming up to shake Lupin’s hand in congratulations. “I should hope I’m not next.”

A handful of the Weasleys stiffened, and for a moment Draco thought he’d touched on a sensitive subject. Lupin himself seemed to have no idea if he should be offended or not, but then he laughed aloud. It was more a bark than a chuckle.

“I promise you, Mr Malfoy,” Lupin reassured him, and then cast an adoring look at his new wife. Ah, so there it was. The Look. Mrs Weasley was scolding them thoroughly for not having a bigger affair that they could have been invited to, but the rest of the family moved on quickly to other things. Draco watched the Look when Tonks went to meet Lupin’s eyes - and silently hoped it wasn’t that obvious. If it was, someone would have surely seen it on his face by now.

Friday came in a rush, and Draco was so tightly-wound he could barely sit down. People were noticing - though Weasley spent most of his time following Granger around like a lost dog, now that she’d arrived at the Burrow. The members of the Order were busying themselves with preparations for the next day, so he was left only with the Weaslette for company. They weren’t particularly fond of each other, but they climbed aboard the old brooms again to pass the time; even that didn’t last long, because Draco could barely keep his mind in the game. When they touched down, Ginny fixed him curiously.

“What’s _wrong_ with you, Malfoy?”

Draco wondered what would happen if he told her, if he opened his mouth and announced, ‘I’m hopelessly in love with your ex-boyfriend,’ but decided a statement like that wouldn’t go over particularly well, even at the best of times. So, quietly, he mumbled, “Nothing.”

Ginny pushed her hair from her face. “Well, it’s something, it’s got to be. Regular Malfoy wouldn’t let me score on him that many times.”

“You’re my host. I could hardly rub your nose so clearly in my superior skill.”

She snorted. “Alright, Malfoy,” she had a smug little look about her, but it was good to see that she didn’t entirely despise him. 

They went inside, and she went immediately upstairs to bathe. Mrs Weasley wasn’t cooking, for once - she was talking quietly over the table with Mr Weasley, clasping his hands. He could see the worry on her face, plain as day. Despite his best eavesdropping, Draco couldn’t hear, since their voices were so low. He fell into the sofa cushions and stared into the fireplace. The heat licked at his shoes, and he sighed heavily. Someone sat down delicately beside him.

“Fleur,” Draco greeted her.

The wedding-planning was definitely running her ragged, if the circles under her eyes were any indication. “‘Ello, Draco,” she smiled delicately.

“Can I help you?”

“ _Non_ , I merely wanted to see you. I fear ze next few days will be busy ones.”

Draco couldn’t stop himself. “Like tomorrow.”

Fleur winced. “Mrs Weasley ‘as told me I cannot speak of zis with you.” He cast an accusatory glare in Mrs Weasley’s direction, but he could see she was distraught by something her husband was saying. He looked sullenly into the fireplace instead, and wished the flames would devour him alive. “I am sorry, truly. I trust you.”

Draco met Fleur’s eyes. “Thank you.”

“Is zere something bothering you, Draco?”

“I know that this is… well, I shouldn’t be thinking this way,” he started, and Fleur nodded encouragingly. “My parents are Death Eaters. I shouldn’t be hoping they’ll be alright. But…” he shrugged helplessly and fought against dissolving into tears. “If Mother could be spared…”

Fleur waited for him to continue, but realized he had run out of words. She slung her arm around his shoulders and pulled him against her in a tight little hug. She smelled of lavender soap, and Draco relaxed into her arms. “It is, _à mon avis_ , a completely normal feeling to ‘ave. Zey are your family. Even when zey make mistakes, you cannot help but remember all ze times zey were good to you.”

“Becoming a Death Eater is more than a mistake.”

Fleur looked pointedly at his arm, then, which was covered by a cast-off jumper. “Ah, but ze reasons for becoming one are not always what zey seem.”

Draco cleared his throat and pulled away from her hug. She let him go easily and offered a sympathetic smile. “Thank you,” he mumbled.

“Zere will be a day when you are a great man.”

He laughed mirthlessly. “I doubt that.”

Fleur wiggled her fingers mysteriously, stood, and left Draco alone to ponder how in the hell he’d manage to become a great man, or even a decent one. By the time he tucked himself to bed, he was still drawing blanks. He was so transfixed by the question that he wore himself out trying to figure out how he himself would become a great man, and forgot about the plan to rescue a truly great one tomorrow.

#

Draco slept far too late in the day. When he woke, Ron’s bed was rumpled but empty. Based on the light coming in through the window, it was past noon. Draco disentangled himself from his blankets and stood up. He pushed some dangling strands of hair out of his face, but it fell right back down again. He couldn’t remember the charm his mother used to hold it into place, and based on the Weasleys’ hairstyles, there were no products in the home. In Draco’s bag was a tin of hair grease, but it was almost empty. He sighed and decided to look rumpled.

Once he was dressed in the same borrowed jeans and shirt as always, he meandered downstairs. Mrs Weasley was cooking a massive lunch, fluttering about and talking out of the side of her mouth at each of her children in turn. Most of them were heading out to help with the Potter-rescue that night, but Ginny was staying behind. She seemed about as disgruntled about it as Draco did, and the two of them watched the preparations grudgingly from the sofa.

“Just because I’m not eighteen yet,” she grumbled, her arms folded across her chest, “doesn’t mean I can’t help.”

Draco nodded sympathetically. “They have the audacity not to trust me, when I’ve proven already that I don’t want Ha- _Potter_ -!” he cut himself off to see if Weasley had caught the slip, but she was distracted by her own anger. “That I don’t want him hurt.”

“My brothers are going!” she continued. “It’s not like Mum can say she doesn’t want me hurt!”

“It’s useless to have me here. What could I possibly _do_?”

Ginny blinked. “You could have the Death Eaters come to wherever we are.”

“Have I yet?”  
She shrugged. “You could be waiting for the right time.”

Draco bristled and felt compelled to hex her, but he clenched his fists to feel the sobering bite of his nails. “I would have already, if that were what I planned.”

“Why haven’t you? I mean, it only makes sense you would, right? We’re not your family.”

“My father is a _Death Eater_. It doesn’t take a goody-two-shoes Gryffindor to see that it’s wrong. I’ve seen what they do.”

“You’re a Death Eater, too, aren’t you?”

“Not by choice,” Draco said, with a note of finality. He was done entertaining this conversation, though Ginny was the only person who was willing to talk to him right now. Everyone else was so busy with the preparations. Lupin was particularly nervous, Draco could see, talking under his breath to Tonks at every turn; she turned down whatever request he kept thrusting her way. Trouble in paradise already? Curious. 

Mrs Weasley called Ginny for some help in the kitchen, and the sole company Draco had was gone. Absentmindedly, he decided to wander. It was a blisteringly hot day, and when he went out into the afternoon sun it caressed his cheeks. With skin as pale as his, it was dangerous to walk without something to shade him from the rays, but he didn’t particularly care. He visited the chickens first, who clucked about in their coop happily. Draco sat under a tree and watched them, with their quick, erratic little motions of the head. Once the chickens grew boring, he walked over to the broom shed. Tonks was inside, sorting through the Weasleys’ collection with dismay.

“None of these are any good, eh, Draco?” she asked, moving out of the way so he could see.

“I’m afraid not. They’re _awful_ for Quidditch,” he commented snidely, and then tacked on, quietly: “But it’s the best they can do.”

Tonks cocked a grin. “I know. It’s nice of them to offer, too, but I don’t know if they’ll be any good.”

When Tonks went back inside, Draco closed up the shed and continued to wander the property. He was sweating through his shirt but refused to take it off, and his hair was sticky from the heat. Ugh, it was awful. Draco noticed that Fleur was standing outside as well, staring at the chicken coop where he’d just been. He made his way in her direction, and when she saw him she smiled weakly.

“‘Ello, Draco.”

“You’re going tonight as well, aren’t you?” he asked by way of greeting.

“Ah, _oui_. But I ‘ave a chance for a short rest now, and I thought it would be nice to spend it outside.”

“Ridiculously hot out today.”

“Very much so,” she agreed, but it was clear that Fleur’s mind was elsewhere.

“Is something the matter?” Draco questioned.

She blinked. “It’s nothing.”

“Well, I won’t press you on it. But if there’s something bothering you, I’m listening.”

Fleur seemed to consider this. “Perhaps you will find zis foolish, but I am worried zat someone will get, ah, injured before my wedding, and it will be ruined.”

Draco could understand completely. It would be awful if someone was to get hurt, but even worse if it disrupted her marriage. It wasn’t particularly self-centred, because she wanted all her loved ones at her nuptials. He hesitated, and then patted her shoulder awkwardly.

“Everything will go as… Well, however the Order-” he rolled his eyes, “-has planned it.”

Fleur’s eyes twinkled. “‘As anyone told you about your wedding disguise?”

Draco froze. “My _wedding_ what?”

“We are doing ze same thing with ‘Arry. Since we do not know ‘ow safe it is, we are disguising him as a cousin of ze Weasleys. With a Polyjuice potion.” Draco shuddered at the idea of a redheaded Potter, but nodded for her to continue. “For you, we ‘ave chosen a distant cousin of mine. If zere is an attack, You-Know-Who will be looking for ‘Arry, and perhaps for you.”

“Well, we resemble each other,” Draco nodded appreciatively, “so the transformation won’t be too different, I imagine. At least I don’t have to pretend to be a _Weasley_.”

Fleur giggled. “At least.”

“There’s something you’re not telling me.”

She laughed again. “Maybe.”

“What is it?” Draco demanded, his blood turning to ice in his veins. 

Fleur stood up and brushed off her skirt, getting prepared to walk away. Before she did, she fixed Draco with an overly-smiley look, blew a kiss, and purred: “My cousin’s name is Madeleine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Nobody knows what I'm doing here  
> And I ain't got a clue  
> Messin around with these other fools  
> When I'm not with you."  
> -'What I'm Doing Here,' Lake Street Drive


	8. Liability

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Battle of the Seven Potters happens and Draco is made to wait at the Burrow until the rest arrive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the late chapter here, loves. Busy busy busy time for me. I got a new tattoo! Next chapter is the wedding, which I'm looking forward to writing. I hope this is good enough for now.

Draco was standing in the doorway behind the Burrow with Mrs Weasley and her only daughter. The three of them were quickly unravelling from their original facade of calmness: two Portkeys had come, and no one was back.

They were all, of course, assuming the worst: the Death Eaters had gotten Ron and Tonks and Mr Weasley and Fred. Draco was worried, but the pain scraping along his forearm was distracting. It burned something awful, the usually-faint Mark an inky black. He kept his sleeve pulled down and stared, a hand against his collarbone, at the empty place in the yard.

“It’s Harry and Hagrid next, it should be,” Ginny whispered, and her mother kissed the top of her head. A bolt of some impossible feeling struck Draco in the stomach, spreading ice from inside him. He knew he shouldn’t be excited to see Potter, not in a situation like this, but he couldn’t help himself: it’d been too long. He hated himself for even thinking about it. While they stood, he started wondering about his parents. Father would have answered the call to arms in an instant. Had Mother? Where was she? Was she still even alive?

A small blue light illuminated the garden and grew, and when it seemed it couldn’t grow any brighter Potter and the Gamekeeper and a ratty old hairbrush spun into the garden on top of each other. Both Mrs Weasley and Ginny shrieked, and ran down the steps to greet the first arrivals. Draco stayed in the doorway, because he knew Potter wouldn’t want to see him right now. 

Potter was so pale he looked nearly translucent, and he swayed on his feet when he stood. The oaf, whose name escaped Draco presently, was pushing himself to his feet.

“Harry? You are the real Harry? What happened? Where are the others?” Mrs Weasley was demanding, and Potter looked like someone had Stunned him. He was being bombarded with questions all at once.

“What d’you mean? Isn’t anyone else back?” he asked, and then blinked upon reading Mrs Weasley’s expression. “The Death Eaters were waiting for us. We were surrounded the moment we took off - they knew it was tonight - I don’t know what happened to anyone else, four of them chased us, it was all we could do to get away, and then Voldemort caught up with us-” Potter broke off and looked close to tears. 

“Thank goodness you’re all right,” Mrs Weasley hugged Potter hurriedly, spoke to the oaf, and disappeared into the house for something. Ginny was lingering by Potter’s side, and she told him about the other two Portkeys that had failed to bring any of the Order back home to them. Mrs Weasley emerged from the house with a bottle of an amber liquid and handed it to the oaf.

“Mum!” Ginny shouted, and Draco turned to see another Portkey swirling into existence. Lupin staggered forward with one of the twins dangling off his shoulder. There was something wrong with his face that Draco couldn’t place until a couple beats later: blood. There was blood everywhere. Potter grabbed the Weasley’s legs and he and Lupin half-dragged, half-carried him inside the house, pushing past Draco who still lingered in the doorway. He couldn’t help but follow, and watched as Mrs Weasley started to fret over her unconscious son on the sofa. There was an ear gone, and there was blood _everywhere_. 

Draco had seen so much of it in the last year, but the sight of blood never ceased to be dizzying for him. When the twin - someone said George - was laid down, Lupin suddenly lunged and yanked Potter into the kitchen. Draco’s ears were ringing and he was so desperately confused.

“Answer me!” Lupin was shouting. 

“A - a grindylow in a tank, wasn’t it?” Potter replied, in a voice so broken Draco was shocked no one else could hear it. As the conversation rumbled around him, he wished he could take Potter away from here and tend to him without all their noise and drama surrounding him. It couldn’t be healthy. Potter was trying desperately to keep up with Lupin’s questioning and demanding, but he was so confused. The stupid, dead-eyed look on Potter’s face was one Draco knew well, since he saw it every time he harassed the Chosen One and his lackeys. 

“I won’t blast people out of my way just because they’re there,” Harry growled finally, cutting Lupin off at last. “That’s Voldemort’s job.”

The name sent a prickle down Draco’s spine, and he became aware again of the tingling and burning in his Mark. He wished he could curse it right from his skin, but there was nothing he could do. Draco edged towards the doorway, eager to disappear. There was noise outside, and everyone who could ran outside. Kingsley Shacklebolt and Granger were walking vaguely in the direction of the house. Granger flung herself into Potter’s arms, and he held onto her tightly. Draco was angry about his own jealousy, but he was equally glad that Granger was doing the thing he’d never be able to.

Shacklebolt was interrogating Lupin the same way the ragged werewolf had done Potter, and, once satisfied, turned his wand on Potter. It was all Draco could do not to launch himself in front of the wand, but Lupin stopped him first.

“It’s him, I’ve checked!”

“All right, all right!” Shacklebolt conceded, stuffing his wand into his cloak. “But somebody betrayed us! They knew, they knew it was tonight!”

Eyes turned on Draco. Slowly, every pair in the garden found their way onto him, an the bristled. Of course he’d be the suspect, even after he’d proven he wouldn’t hurt any of them. Granger looked especially suspicious of him, and he rolled his eyes. 

“Of course,” he snarled, “you’d all expect it to me, wouldn’t you?”

Shacklebolt extended his wand, and Draco extended his arms as if to embrace whatever spell the wizard was planning to send his way. “You _are_ a Death Eater.”

“Right, and I’d choose now! Of course I would! Because I’ve been so focused on killing Precious Potter lately?” he was aware he was dissolving into a hysterical rant, but he couldn’t stop himself. “I’ve not betrayed my family or my entire life as I knew for this-!” Draco trailed off and pointed his hand vaguely in Potter’s direction. “Perhaps I should call the Dark Lord, just to prove you all right? You’d be happy if you all felt smart, wouldn’t you?” Draco jerked his sleeve up and made a show of going to touch his Mark, and a couple people jumped. Before anyone could really react, his wand arm was back at his side, and the Mark stood, inky black and coiling along the milky white skin of his arm, as a reminder to them all that he _could_. 

“Why don’t we go inside, Malfoy?” Lupin offered delicately. Draco and Potter wandered into the house, Lupin trailing after them. Potter went right back to his injured friend’s side, but Draco had nowhere to go. Lupin led him into the kitchen and they stood against the counter, Draco heaving with the remnants of his hysteria. “That was a very passionate speech you made.”

“I doubt it helped my case any.”

Lupin chuckled under his breath. “Well, maybe not. But when you talk, I think you’ll be listened to.”

Mr Weasley tore through the house with the uninjured twin on his trail, shouting in a way Draco didn’t expect after knowing the mild-mannered man. “I’ll prove who I am, Kingsley, after I’ve seen my son, now back off if you know what’s good for you!”

The two new arrivals were pale and blank when they saw their family member stretched on the sofa. The other twin, who had to be Fred, stared at his twin without a word. There was nothing to say, and his silence spoke volumes. George twitched on the sofa.

“How do you feel, Georgie?” whispered Mrs Weasley.

George went to touch his ear, and then croaked, “Saintlike.” 

“What’s wrong with him?” Fred blanched even more and looked around at his family. “Is his mind affected?”

“Saintlike,” George repeated. “You see… I’m holy. _Holey_ , Fred, geddit?”

Draco snorted, but he stayed in the kitchen like a scared dog. He didn’t want to intrude on a family’s moment, and it was certainly not somewhere he’d be welcomed after his tirade in the garden. He slipped outside and the cool air of the summer night touched his sweaty face. It was quiet outside, and free. The Burrow, packed like it was, made him claustrophobic. He worried about Fleur and Ron, the people closest to friends since he’d arrived. Ginny and Potter came out too, and Draco could see that their hands were linked. Shacklebolt, the oaf, Granger, and Lupin found their ways outside and everyone stared at the stars. Draco tried to read Potter’s mind, but he had none of the Dark Lord’s skill.

Suddenly, a broom appeared in the air and plummeted to the ground. 

“It’s them!” Granger announced shrilly, and Draco’s eyeroll was tamped down by his relief that his cousin and his near-friend were alive. 

“Remus!” Tonks called and catapulted herself at her husband, who looked at her blankly. Ron wandered over and greeted his friends; Draco felt a little snubbed that he wasn’t greeted. Granger was almost hysterical, snotting all over Ron in her annoying way.

“I thought- I thought-”

It seemed wrong that Ron was comforting her Granger, but he patted her gently on the back and let her dangle herself from his neck like a newborn monkey.

“Ron was great. Wonderful. Stunned one of the Data Eaters, straight to the head, and when you’re aiming at a moving target from a flying broom-” Tonks was telling everyone, and a small voice in the back of Draco’s head whispered _Not mine_. He hoped to himself that his mother had been spared, that she’d not been out tonight. He swallowed thickly and disappeared back inside the house. He was acutely aware that he was not a part of this, never a part of this. He watched from inside the doorway as Potter stood off to the side as his friends clung to each other. Potter turned and saw him and started coming towards him. 

“Malfoy,” came the uttered greeting. 

“Potter,” was the grumbled response.

There was something lurking in Potter’s shiny eyes that Draco couldn’t place. “I didn’t see your mum. I think your family’s alright.” 

“Mother’s safe?” Draco breathed, and a weight fell from his chest. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure we would have heard. Your dad and your aunt are okay, too, I think. Nobody got them.”

“I shouldn’t spare any thought to them - I betray-… I left them. _Left_.” 

If Potter caught the slip-up, he didn’t show it. “They’re your family, Malfoy. It’d be weird if you didn’t care at least a little bit. I’d kill to see mine even for a day.”

Draco blinked and realized his eyes felt hot. He watched as a thestral landed in the yard, its cargo of Bill and Fleur sliding off and swarming Mrs Weasley. There were a lot of tears, and Draco didn’t particularly wish to be a part of the riff-raff. Potter turned his eyes back to Draco, but before he could think of something snide to say to his supposed enemy, his arm burned so ferociously that his brain went completely blank and he fell to the ground.

Draco knew pain. He knew it in the Cruciatus curse, in his father’s cane against his cheek, in the sharp strokes of his mother’s hand in his hair as she tried to make him presentable - “Please, Draco, we don’t want to upset your father.” Draco had lived a life intimately familiar with hurt, but this was unlike anything he had ever felt. It was like being wiped completely clean until nothing existed but the burning, twisting up his arm and injecting his veins with an impossible combination of hot and cold at once. He could not feel the ground below him but the nerves in his cheeks were sparking from how hard he was clenching his teeth, and there was sharp feeling aggravating his throat that he realized had to be from the screaming.

He couldn’t hear, couldn’t see save for black spots pooling like a clumsy hand had knocked an ink pot over his vision.

Draco was glad when unconsciousness laid its heavy hand on him, because the pain ceased to be when he could no longer feel it. 

#

Draco blinked himself and was overwhelmed with a need to vomit. He didn’t recognize the room he was in but he leaned over the side of the bed to expel his stomach contents dramatically onto the rug. Nothing much came up except a little clear liquid, and if the parched feeling in his throat was any indication he had been out longer than a day. He looked around the room and found himself alone, except for a nervous little owl who watched him with eyes as big as globes.

The urge to vomit came again, but instead the burning sensation of bile crept up Draco’s throat and he hacked dryly. It was painfully undignified and not at all like a Malfoy to loudly vomit onto a floor, but he supposed much of what he was doing now was not at all like a Malfoy. There were footsteps thumping on the stairs, growing louder until the door was knocked open with a little too much force. Upon recognizing his visitor, Draco nearly leaned over the bed again.

“Haven’t you heard of knocking, Potter?”

Green eyes blinked, and then crinkled with a smile behind the smudged glasses. “Sorry, Malfoy. Thought you were choking on your own throw-up - didn’t want to risk the wait.”

“You’d want to watch me die choking on my own vomit?” Draco asked snidely.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Potter replied, which would have stung if he wasn’t smiling in such a friendly way. There was a long pause and Draco touched the side of his mouth with his ring finger self-consciously, worried a spot of vomit might remain. He thought he was safe, and was about to speak when Potter opened his mouth again. “No, you go,” Potter offered.

“It was nothing, just smalltalk. Say your piece.”

Potter muttered something, of which Draco could pick out “smalltalk” and “Malfoy.” Then he breathed out in a dramatic huff and said, “Your father’s wand got destroyed.”

“Pardon me?”

“The night you blacked out, when we were taking you upstairs, I had a vision.”

Draco cocked a brow. “A vision of Trelawny proportions?”

“Not like that,” Potter rolled his eyes. “Sometimes… Because Voldemort-” Draco visibly shuddered and Potter seemed to wince sympathetically. “Because he and I have a weird link, if he gets really mad I can see what he sees.”

“Merlin, that’s terrifying. And is my father…?” Draco trailed off, trying to choose his words carefully. “Is my father still in service of the Dark Lord?”

“I don’t know, sorry. I only saw that Voldemort was yelling at Ollivander about how your dad’s wand made the same connection with mine. Must’ve been the one he was using when I saw him on the way here.”

“How long have I been asleep?”

“Three days.”

“And no one tried to wake me?” Draco asked, horrified. He had expected a day, maybe, but three days was clearly a weakness. 

“We tried, all right. You wouldn’t wake, except…” Potter flushed a most interesting colour. “Sometimes you’d respond to us, kind of just asleep nonsense. Well, sometimes you’d respond to me. Ron tried - you’re friends now, I suppose? - but you wouldn’t answer him. You said ‘Madeleine’ to Fleur… is there a Madeleine in Slytherin?”

Draco didn’t feel like explaining the wedding disguise situation to Potter just yet, so he shook his head. “It’s not important. What did…” Draco swallowed past a reluctant lump in his throat. “What did I say to you?”

There was a smirk behind Potter’s green eyes that only served to unsettle Draco, but no manner of coaxing could elicit a fruitful response. Frustrated, Draco turned his head to face the wall but the sudden movement made him dizzy. He groaned. 

“I should fetch Mrs Weasley! She can get you something to eat!” Potter exclaimed suddenly, as if just remembering that Draco hadn’t eaten in three days. 

“Just tea, please.”

Potter disappeared through the door with all the enthusiasm of a house-elf, and Draco fell back against the pillow, what was left of his strength escaping him at last. He was thoroughly confused, but he thought he rather enjoyed the attention Potter had decided to give him. It was only a few minutes before Mrs Weasley arrived in the doorway, both Potter and Ron on her tail. He looked over their shoulders and saw Granger glaring from the hallway - he supposed he’d have to reconcile with her eventually.

“There you are, dear,” Mrs Weasley cooed, placing a tray with a steaming teacup and a buttered scone in front of him. There was a little pot of jam beside it, and the butter was steaming. “We were starting to worry you’d never wake up, and then where would we be? Eat up.”

Draco’s stomach leapt and he had to stop himself from disgracefully tearing into the food. He ate slow and contemplatively until an erratic French voice came from downstairs and Mrs Weasley tore herself away from the room and ran downstairs to see what was the matter. 

“That isn’t Fleur,” Draco observed, setting down his scone and taking a tiny sip of his tea.

“Her mum and dad and all them showed up this morning,” Ron supplied. “This is Percy’s old room, you’ll be moving back into mine because Fleur and her little sister are taking it over once you’re well enough to get out of bed.”

“I’m well enough now,” Draco started, trying to move the tray from his lap, but Potter nearly jumped out of his skin trying to settle it back down.

“Eat first. Drink your tea.”

“Merlin, mate, Mum’s rubbing off on you,” Ron commented. Draco smiled placidly and continued to pick at his scone. Granger huffed and Draco sucked in a breath.

“Granger, would you mind coming in here?”

Her eyes widened and he could see her squaring her shoulders. “What for, Malfoy? So you can call me a Mudblood again?”

“I won’t press you if you’re not yet comfortable with the idea, but I’d like to speak with you. If that’s okay?” 

Draco spared a glance at Ron, who shrugged. “Up to her.”

Potter and Ron cleared out of the room as per Draco’s request, leaving Granger to linger uncomfortably in the place where they stood. She said nothing, and Draco watched her over the rim of his cup for a long pause before he found the words he wanted to say .

“I suppose you know that I’ve become somewhat of a friend with your… What _is_ Ron to you?”

“Only a friend,” Granger replied, but her voice wavered.

“Ah. Well, he and I have become friends of sorts. And Potter… Well, I can’t begin to understand why he’s decided to make himself my personal servant today, but I suppose he’s growing fond of me now.”

“How could he not, you’re Draco Malfoy?” Granger sniped in a voice dripping with pure sarcasm.

“I can’t blame you for your dislike of me,” Draco began, ignoring her comment. “I was quite wretched to you.” She nodded and rolled her eyes. “I don’t want to make excuses for my poor behaviour, but know that you’ll not be seeing that from me again after… Well, now that I’m…” he swallowed, finding it harder to get through this apology than he expected. With Potter, there was nothing to be said - they had saved each other’s lives - and Ron was more than content to find a new Quidditch partner and forgive that which had been said. Granger had gotten the worst of Draco’s misdirected cruelty, and righting this wrong was not going to be quite so instantaneous. “Now that I’m free of my family, you have nothing to fear from me. I can only say I am deeply sorry for the awful things I have said about you in the past and promise you I will never say them again.”

Granger blinked the disbelief away. “I’m not ready to forgive you yet, Malfoy.”

He cast his gaze down at his hands, which had decided rather of their own accord to start shaking. “I understand.”

“But I appreciate it. I’ll have to see it to believe it, but I suppose Ronald’s already seen it,” she half-smiled like it pained her. “And you did try to save Harry, I guess. That’s worth something.”

And then Granger was gone like she had Apparated, and Draco was left with his own thoughts and a scone that had gone a little cold. He smeared some jam, which was apricot, and took another bite. The food was a little rich for a stomach so empty but he managed it down and finished his tea before setting the tray aside and sliding out of the bed. Draco immediately crumpled, his knees weak from three days of disuse. He groaned and pulled himself to his feet, walking much more cautiously across the clean room to the door. He tripped over a stray sock and nearly faceplanted, cursing as he caught himself in the doorway. The stairs were an even more dangerous matter and he felt close to death at a couple points where he tripped and had to clutch at whatever he could in order not to meet his demise in the Weasleys’ stairwell. Everyone was so busy with the wedding preparations, only two days away, that Draco ran into no one who offered their help. Once safely at the bottom of the stairs, he stopped by the window and caught his breath. Mrs Weasley and Potter were chatting at the clothesline, and Potter was denying something adamantly. 

Draco was always transfixed by how much Potter put into every word he spoke. He was the kind of person who felt sincerely and talked with a conviction Draco would have found impossible to conjure up. Mrs Weasley walked away from him then, leaving Potter with slightly sagging shoulders and a completely stupid look on his face, as was often there. Blank, the way Draco’s brain went when Potter was in his line of sight. Potter turned and met Draco’s eyes, or at least he thought, and he nearly burned right through his shoes ducking away from the window in order not to be seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "They say, 'You're a little much for me  
> You're a liability  
> You're a little much for me.'  
> So they pull back, make other plans  
> I understand, I'm a liability  
> Get you wild, make you leave  
> I'm a little much for  
> everyone."  
> -'Liability,' Lorde


	9. I Exist I Exist I Exist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I keep pushing the wedding scenes off! I swear I don't mean to, but I have so much to say and so many details I remember that I just don't want to make my chapters a million years long. I cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye promise that the wedding will be the next chapter. I've started writing it already and I know at least some of y'all will appreciate the level of fanservice there. xx

It was wholly unsettling to be sleeping only a half a foot away from Harry Potter, Draco noted, curling up under a blanket on Ron’s floor and staring at Potter’s sleeping face. He slept with his lips parted, and Draco was watching as a bead of drool was working its way out the corner of his mouth. Draco had never considered drool attractive, but something about it on Potter wasn’t entirely disgusting. He hated the way he was thinking. 

Ron was already long gone into the throes of his slumber, and so Draco was left alone to stare at Potter to his heart’s content without judgment. Potter was still for a little while, but then began to shift frantically. He seemed teetering on the verge of a nightmare, and Draco wanted nothing more than to cross the distance between them and pull Potter to his chest until the bad dream ceased. He pushed that thought away too and turned, but he could still hear the quiet panicky whimpers coming from beside him. Draco pushed his pillow over his head and hoped silently for sleep to swallow him whole. 

#

When Draco woke, it was far too early.It had been his roommates’ talking that had woken him, and when he propped himself up on an elbow Potter cut himself off at the word “abroad.”

“Don’t mind me, now,” Draco said teasingly, but neither of them looked in any hurry to continue with their conversation. 

“Do me a favour and don’t tell Hermione,” Potter whispered finally, and Draco couldn’t stop from eavesdropping. He looked like he wanted to continue but Draco’s eyes fixed firmly on his face were making him stutter. 

“Is there a plot afoot?” Draco asked, suddenly wide awake though it seemed to be dawn. “I’d like to be part of a plot if there is one. Might be nice to be on the right side of one for once.”

“No, sorry,” Ron answered. “Harry’s just an annoying sleeper.” When Potter puled a face, Ron grinned. “Well, happy birthday anyway.”

Draco had forgotten, and felt bad. He hadn’t gotten anything for Potter, both because he would definitely not be able to access his family’s vault, and because he hadn’t been anywhere he could have shopped. He didn’t even know what Potter would have liked, since within his own friend group the best presents were the ones that cost the most Galleons.

“Wow - that’s right, I forgot! I’m seventeen!”

Potter jumped for his want and summoned his glasses, which promptly smashed him right in his bright green eyeball. 

“Slick,” Ron commented dryly, and he and Draco both had to stop themselves from dissolving into ridiculous hysterical laughter. For a while they watched Potter as he explored his freedom from the Trace, and Ron’s tiny little owl wouldn’t stop making little excited noises. He got dressed with a bunch of flashy, choppy wandwork. When he was done all that, he looked around the room with a grin on his face, so pleased with himself. Draco fought back a proud little smile of his own, reminding himself he had no right to be.

“I’d do your fly by hand, though,” Ron said, and laughed as Potter looked down at his crotch. Draco flushed. “Here’s your present. Unwrap it up here, it’s not for my mother’s eyes.”

“A book?” Potter took the shoddily-wrapped package out of Ron’s hands and tore into it. “Bit of a departure from tradition, isn’t it?”

“This isn’t your average book. It’s pure gold: _Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches_. Explains everything you need to know about girls. If one I’d had this last year I’d have known exactly how to get rid of Lavender and I would’ve known how to get going with…” Draco laughed aloud and was rewarded with a scathing glare. “Well, Fred and George gave me a copy, and I’ve learned a lot. You’d be surprised, it’s not all about wandwork, either.”

Ron didn’t seem to pick up the innuendo, but Potter met Draco’s eye and winked. Draco felt like he was going to melt on the spot, and guilt roiled around in his gut when he remembered he hadn’t gotten the Chosen One a birthday gift. 

“Thanks, Ron, but I don’t think I’ll really need it.”

“Oh, I forgot, Harry Potter, boy who lived, all that.”

“Right…” Potter replied uncertainly and stood up, leaving the book on Ron’s bed. Draco slicked his hair back and kept it stuck that way with a charm, Ron belched, and Potter rubbed his eye before putting his glasses on. The three of them made their way downstairs, where the smell of Mrs Weasley’s delightful breakfast wafted to them before they could even see the table. Most people were done eating, but Mrs Weasley was still at the frying pan and chattering with Bill as well as Fleur’s father. There were presents stacked ridiculously high all over the table and Draco had to escape. He ran outside and looked around the yard - what in the world could he possibly give to Potter that wouldn’t seem rushed?

There were the useless chickens and some trees and a pile of rocks and a flowerbed, but there was nothing particularly useable. What would Potter even like? Draco knew he enjoyed Quidditch, but there was nothing he could think of that he could offer. He looked down at himself and saw the hand-me-down clothing, and then remarked on the one article he’d taken from his home: the ring shaped like a snake that curled around his finger until its head rested on his knuckle. To Draco, it represented Slytherin, and by extension of that, his family. He didn’t know what it would mean to Potter but it was fine silver and the snake was a pretty little creature. He slipped it from his finger and searched around for a wrapping - he decided on a piece of fabric, and used his want to start a cut in the hem of his shirt. Draco wrapped the little ring in the fabric and tied it. It looked awful, but it worked. When he returned inside the house, Potter was opening a box labelled ‘Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes’ and chewing sloppily on a mouthful of bacon.

“That’s it, then?” Ron asked.

Potter went to nod, but Draco butted in. “Here,” he said, dropping the little bundle of silver and torn shirt into Potter’s extended hand. He sat at the table and dropped a couple of pieces of bacon onto his own plate, watching as Potter examined the shoddy wrapping.

“Is that your T-shirt?” he asked.

“Doesn’t matter, Potter. Open the damned thing before I decide to take it back.”

Potter wiggled the ring free of the knotted fabric and Mrs Weasley made a little gasping noise. “Well, isn’t that lovely!”

Potter’s reaction was muted. He stared at it for a long moment. “This is yours, Malfoy.”

“It was.”

“I can’t take this.”

“You’re not. I’m offering it,” Draco replied, exasperated. If gift-giving to poor people required this amount of talking, maybe he’d never do it again. Then he remembered that he had not a Knut to his name now, and coloured. 

“It’s… Nice. Thank you.”

Draco flapped a hand unceremoniously. “It’s all that I have, or I would have chosen something a little less… Well, so centrically Slytherin.”

“Actually, it suits him quite well,” Granger piped up, and Draco smiled gratefully at her for saving him in this way. “He’s a Parseltongue.”

“I’d nearly forgotten,” Draco admitted. “You set a snake on me in second year!”

“It was your bloody snake!” Potter laughed, but he slipped the ring onto his ring finger - which turned out to be too small, so he slid it onto the middle one instead - and smiled thankfully to Draco. Draco, who couldn’t tame the stupid smile that was making his cheeks ache. Harry, Ron, and Hermione all made their way up the stairs with Draco in tow, but on the first-floor landing Ginny popped her head out of her bedroom.

“Harry, will you come in here a moment?”

And away Potter went, without even a second thought. Ron looked angry, but Hermione had him by the elbow and tried to lead him up the stairs. Draco was nearly vibrating with jealousy, but he pulled himself away and trudged up behind Ron and Granger. They were nearly up to the second-floor landing when they froze. Potter was shouting.

“Give it a rest, Ginny! We’ve broken up!”

The three of them barrelled back down the stairs, and Ron shoved the door open. Ginny was sitting on the bed with tears in her eyes, and Potter was against the wall, clearly on his way to the door. Potter slipped out of the room and Ginny was sitting there with a stunned look on her face like she couldn’t possibly fathom someone not wanting her.

“Well, happy birthday anyway, Harry.”

Potter caught his breath once Ginny’s door swung shut, and Ron began to stomp wordlessly back downstairs. Everyone else trailed after him, Potter and Granger exchanging nervous little looks with each other. Once they made it through the kitchen to the yard, Ron turned to Potter with a burning-hot face.

“What was that all about?”

Potter choked and spluttered for an awkward moment. “She tried to kiss me, said it was my birthday present.”

Ron made a noise. “And you couldn’t have been gentler? Bloody hell, mate, she’s still really cut up about you ending it.”

“Is she, still? It’s been a while.”

“A while? Mate, she was in love with you. Did you not…?” Ron’s accusation fell flat. “How are you so all right with it already? It’s been a month!” Potter shrugged, which was clearly not the right move based on Ron’s reaction. “You don’t just get to shrug it off! She’s my sister we’re talking about!” 

“I’m sorry, Ron! Merlin! It won’t happen again, I’ve made it clear. Okay?” Potter’s chest was heaving and he couldn’t stop glancing Draco’s way. Granger was standing next to Draco and shaking her head at her two friends who were behaving rather like idiots.

“Right, then, well, that’s… yeah.” Ron rocked on his heels and forced a smile. “I suppose because it’s your birthday and all, I should cut you some slack.”  
“Do you think?” Granger piped up, and her serious tone made Draco snicker. They spent some time in the sun, Draco’s old ring catching the sunlight and illuminating Potter’s finger. Ron and Granger reenacted their Yule Ball dance lessons with Professor McGonagall, who apparently had decided to dance with the male students personally to get them to know the steps.

“Did…” before Ron could even start his question, he was giggling. “Did Snape do the same thing with the Slytherins?”

Admittedly, the mental picture was a funny one. Draco still had to cut down Ron’s fantasies for the sake of the truth. “We’re _Slytherins_ , Weasley. We come waltzing from the womb.”

Everyone laughed at that, and Draco found it profoundly rewarding to have people laugh at your joke because it was clever, not because they were yes-men. He decided to replicate the effect with some more jokes, though none of them gleaned him such a big reaction as the first. 

Later in the day, Charlie arrived, much to Draco’s delight. He was an easy person to get along with as usual, and he smiled good-naturedly to Draco when he first arrived. Mrs Weasley apprehended her son as soon as he walked into the kitchen and forced him into one of the stiff-backed wooden chairs, brandishing her wand and announcing she was going to cut his hair.

Lupin and Tonks had shown up, and the oaf had knocked on the door only a few minutes later. The Burrow was too small to entertain as many people as were there, but Mrs Weasley had planned for that and had set up some tables in the garden for Potter’s birthday dinner. Draco was at the end of the last table, as far away from Potter as humanly possible, with a Weasley on his right and in front of him and all over. Granger was decorating for Potter’s birthday party with smart little flicks of her wand, and Ron was complimenting her ability. Potter was watching them and grinning, and Draco cast his eyes down so he wouldn’t be staring.

“Out of the way, out of the way!” Mrs Weasley started shouting from the doorway, and she was suspending a massive Snitch in the air. It was easily bigger than a human head. Everyone seemed to realize it was a cake at the same time, and Potter looked like he was going to drool all over himself. 

“That looks amazing, Mrs Weasley,” he said earnestly.

“Oh, it’s nothing, dear,” Mrs Weasley replied. 

Lupin and Tonks had shown up, and the oaf had knocked on the door only a few minutes later. The Burrow was too small to entertain as many people as were there, but Mrs Weasley had planned for that and had set up some tables in the garden for Potter’s birthday dinner. Draco was at the end of the last table, as far away from Potter as humanly possible, with a Weasley on his right and in front of him and all over. 

“Six years her the day since we met, Harry, d’yeh remember it?” Draco overheard the oaf and tuned in abruptly when Potter answered.

“Vaguely,” he said, and then grinned devilishly up at the oaf in such a way Draco could feel his heart tangibly throbbing. “Didn’t you smash down the front door, give Dudley a pig’s tail, and tell me I was a wizard?”

“I forge’ the details,” the oaf laughed through his thick, wild hair, but Draco tuned out and stared at Potter instead. Too many people were focusing on each other that he was quite confident no one would notice his gaze, but then he felt something suddenly slam against his shin. It was all he could do not to yelp as he met Ginny Weasley’s eyes. She shook her head minutely and then looked away as though nothing had happened. Granger’s eyes burned into Draco’s but he kept them averted.

Charlie came out, and his hair that Draco had rather liked in its ponytail was shorn and ragged. He was surprised that Mrs Weasley thought this messy chop job was an improvement upon the sleek red hair that fell down Charlie’s hair like a curtain. His ear was pierced, and Draco liked that.

“Bin meanin’ ter write for ages. How’s Norbert doin’?” the oaf asked Charlie before Draco could greet him.

“Norbert?” Charlie laughed “The Norwegian Ridgeback? We call her Norberta now.”

“What - Norbert’s a girl?” 

“Oh yeah.”

“How can you tell?” Granger asked, finally looking away from Draco in favour of learning.

“They’re a lot more vicious,” Charlie supplied. Draco stood up abruptly, ungracefully knocking his chair onto the lawn and slamming his hands on to the table. 

“I knew it!” he nearly shouted, both amused and frustrated at once. “There _was_ a dragon in your hut that night! First year!”

Both Ron and Potter laughed, and a hearty chuckle came from wherever in that oaf’s mass of hair hid his mouth. “I’m surprised you hadn’t gathered that yet, mate. We’ve gotten away with a lot.”

“We had detention in the Forbidden Forest!” Draco said, exasperated, but he couldn’t stop laughing. His eyes fell onto Potter and he could feel his smile drop away. He’d never forgotten the Forbidden Forest, because that was the first, and one of the few, times he had spent alone with Potter. Even at eleven, Draco had felt the strange stirring of butterflies in his gut, and he’d wanted nothing more in that moment than to run away and never show his face at Hogwarts again. Unfortunately, that prepubescent crush had developed into something much more… potent.

When the laughing had died down, Charlie spoke up. “Wish Dad would hurry up and get here. Mum’s getting edgy.”

That much was clear. Mrs Weasley was talking to Fleur’s mother, but she couldn’t peel her eyes away from the front gate for long. Draco started to feel a little worried too, since he rather liked the Weasleys as a unit and couldn’t imagine them losing their patriarch.

“I think we’d better start without Arthur. He must have been held up at - oh!”

A bright silver creature tore through the lawn at a vengeance, and Draco knew it was a Patronus but couldn’t quite place the creature it was. It stood on the table in a crude imitation of a human stance and spoke: “Minister of Magic coming with me.”

Draco just about sunk into his chair and disappeared, and was prepared to vomit at the same time. The Minister of Magic would be none too pleased to see him here, and before he could think on it more his breath came in ragged pants and black spots started to swim on the fringe of his vision. Tonks grabbed Draco by the shoulder and dragged her husband along with them over the fence. Draco stumbled over the uneven lawn and felt the awful lurch as they Apparated away. He didn’t recognize the place, but a bolt of ice shot through him when he saw the woman standing in the doorway, her hands gathered at the soft part of her throat. 

“Aunt Bellatrix,” Draco gasped, but Tonks shook her head.

“My mum, your aunt. Andromeda.”

Draco didn’t recognize the woman, and he’d never seen a photograph, but it was clear upon closer inspection that she wasn’t his aunt Bellatrix after all. This was a different sister of hers, one only spoken about when Father was away and Mother was feeling particularly sentimental. Draco stood away while Lupin and Tonks greeted his aunt and uncle, awaiting his cue. He followed idly when he was waved into the house, where he was promptly told he could sleep in the sitting room when night fell. Draco didn’t think he’d ever quite get used to sleeping on floors and sofas, but he was happy that his aunt was being kind.

It was after their picked-at dinner that Andromeda sat down on the sofa with Draco and asked him about his mother. He’d been waiting for the questions, but she had restrained herself rather well for a woman who had not seen her sister in such a long time.

“Cissa and Bella, are they alive?”

“I haven’t heard much,” Draco answered uncomfortably. “I hope Mother’s alright.” 

The way Andromeda’s face darkened, Draco wondered if he shouldn’t have said that. Then the wrinkled lines between his aunt’s brows smoothed and she patted his hand. “It’s hard not to think that way, isn’t it? When you’ve loved them all your life and you’re suddenly told not to.”

Draco nodded and sank appreciatively into Andromeda’s touch. She understood him, even if she had had more time to process the loss of sisters gone evil. Aunt Andromeda was decidedly a nicer aunt than Bellatrix, and a much better cook by leaps and bounds. He was sad he didn’t have much of an appetite, because the dinner the Tonks’ had crafted smelled and tasted fantastic. Andromeda was pulled away again by her daughter and son-in-law, but Draco was rather content to sit and mull over his thoughts. 

He’d been caught multiple times recently staring at Potter - this was unacceptable. He’d never be allowed to stay with the Weasleys if Potter didn’t want him there, and he was getting the distinct feeling that an unrequited, disgusting, _homosexual_ crush would be the end of whatever truce he was engaged in with the Chosen One. Even if Potter didn’t much mind Lupin and Sirius Black, that kind of love or lust aimed in his direction might not be a welcome thing.

Unless…

Draco pushed the ridiculous thought out of his mind. The day Potter reciprocated his affections would be the day the Dark Lord shed his robes and danced a burlesque to Celestina Warbeck. With that jarring mental picture he’d concocted, Draco decided his thinking was getting him nowhere and decided to lay himself down to sleep. There was no blanket folded on the sofa like there was at the Weasleys’, but he was so tired he found it didn’t matter much if the occasional draft caught the skin peeking out from under his clothes.

Somewhere through the haze of sleep, Draco heard his mother’s voice singing him a lullaby. He was sure he felt her kiss on his forehead. When he managed to blink himself half-awake, the only person in the room was Aunt Andromeda, humming at the back of her throat and looking out the window. Sleep tucked Draco back into its darkness, and he didn’t notice the thick woollen blanket that had found its way on top of him while he slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I remember the way you shook  
> It's a shame that we're not soulmates  
> Because if I didn't know better  
> I'd say this feels pretty good.  
> How could I be scared?  
> When I stretch and feel you're there.
> 
> So shut your mouth,  
> Because these words will speak themselves  
> I can feel them in these blankets  
> And they're surrounding your figure  
> Embraced in the quilts  
> And I can't help but think  
> You're my missing puzzle piece."  
> -'I Exist I Exist I Exist,' Flatsound


	10. Word of Mouth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The long-awaited wedding chapter? I think yes. Hopefully this doesn't disappoint those of you who had high expectations for this, because I know it's a really important part of this storyline. Much love for the influx of new commenters last chapter, I really appreciate the love and support. It's what keeps me doing this, because fanfiction doesn't pay any sort of bills (ha). 
> 
> My family's trying to get a rescue dog right now, so things are a little bit hectic. I'm hoping I'l have one so there'll be someone to snuggle while I'm writing some new chapters for you guys! 
> 
> This chapter's songs is one of my personal FAVOURITE songs of all time. The artist Shakey Graves is incredible, and I feel like the narrative of 'Word of Mouth' fits a lot of characters in a lot of series.

Draco woke too early in the morning to the sound of hushed voices all around him. Blearily, he sat up, pushing aside the blanket without a second thought. His aunt was looking at him fondly, and he flushed.

“You have your mother’s eyebrows,” she said finally. “Not much of you looks like your mother, but you have her eyebrows.”

Draco touched said eyebrows and decided he’d like them more than the rest of him from now on. This was a piece of his mother he could keep with him always, and he treasured it. Not much could be done with the rest of him, the rest of him that was Lucius. The rest of him that was bad. 

Tonks explained to Draco that they had Apparated to keep them all safe. “It’s dangerous for werewolves to be out right now,” she explained, and Draco nodded. Not too long ago, he’d been against them too; when he’d met Lupin, truly met him, he decided that werewolves were not all like Greyback. Most were normal people - Greyback was the exception, not the rule.

Apparating so early in the morning made Draco feel sick, but he was never confident in his ability to Apparate himself. The Burrow was already crowded when they arrived, this much Draco could see through the fence, but Tonks decided to let him enter the belly of the beast himself. She disappeared with the characteristic _pop!_ of an Apparition and was gone - she was going to get dressed with the help of her mother and return with her husband within the hour.

Draco put a hand against his brow and tried to feel his mother’s strength through them. Instead he found an anxious furrow and breathed out heavily through pursed lips before entering the yard through the fence. No one noticed him at first and he slipped into the house. There, he careened into Fleur, who was nearly completely dressed in all her bridal finery.

“Where ‘ave you been? Ze wedding starts soon, you need your potion!”

In all the insanity, Draco had forgotten about Madeleine. He shuddered. He’d never been a girl before, and he didn’t see the appeal, but he could appreciate that he was still going to be blonde an attractive - or so he hoped. Perhaps Madeleine was the ugly black sheep of the Delacour family. Apparently, Potter had already been dosed heavily with Polyjuice Potion and resembled one of the redheads mulling about, and Draco hadn’t noticed anyone in particular. He didn’t like the idea of Potter not looking himself. 

Mrs Weasley had the Polyjuice for safekeeping, and when Draco approached her she blushed a little. “We got you a dress, dear,” she told him through a fit of giggles. “This was Fleur’s idea, and we couldn’t say no to the bride, and we just-” she was actively trying to suppress her laughter but she seemed prepared to dissolve into hysterics. She simply handed Draco the flask that would keep him in the form of a girl for the rest of the wedding, patted his shoulder, and told him the dress was folded on Ron’s bed upstairs. 

Draco shoved the flask deep into his pocket and marched upstairs. Ron and Potter were outside helping Mrs Weasley with the last-minute preparations, so he had the room to himself. The dress, he noticed, was grey - nearly the same shade as his eyes - and had four neat pearl buttons up the back. It shimmered like it was embedded with small gems, though they twinkled on and off in a way that proved to Draco the dress was charmed. He swallowed thick and opened the flask.It made thick, nauseating noises but smelled not entirely unpleasant. After a deep breath, Draco tipped the flask back, sending a mouthful of the slimy liquid down his throat. He tried to avoid it touching his tongue, but he caught the taste anyways; Madeleine’s essence smelled faintly of citrus and cucumber, but the taste was unfathomably sour.

Draco choked as it slid down to his stomach, and the sensation started from there: he felt horribly like he might need a toilet, and clutched desperately at his stomach. From the stomach to his extremities, a burning sensation spread and his knees buckled. He remembered forcing Crabbe and Goyle to drink this during school for nearly a year, and was mildly guilty. The worst bit was the feeling that his dick was on fire. It was a twisted sort of logic, but it made sense that it would burn up too. Draco shut his eyes and waited as strange sensations washed over him, pushing or melting in some places and bubbling and stretching in others. On his head it felt like a million tiny pins were being forced from his scalp, likely the sensation of his hair growing. He felt like he was compressing, for the most part.   
And then it was done, as quickly as it had begun. He opened his eyes and looked at his hands, which featured creamy, thin fingers that ended in perfectly filed half-moon nails. Madeleine was a _small_ girl; she must not have been more than sixteen and was teetering at the edge of five feet in height. The hair was long and heavy when he moved his head. Moved her head? Draco didn’t understood.

He started to undress from the borrowed outfit of Sirius Black’s. The trousers would no longer stay up on their own, so Draco just let them fall to the floor. The shirt was stretched to capacity by an impressive set of breasts, and he flushed deeply. He was going to have to see this girl’s body naked, and he’d never seen a naked woman before. His pants were baggy and he shucked them off without looking down. Underneath the dress, there was a pair of women’s underwear and a bra. Before he put the undergarments on, he spared a look between his legs… Or at least he tried, but panicked when he saw the fold of flesh and pulled the underwear on quickly. Draco could hear his heart pounding, he was sure of it. 

The bra came next.

Draco had seen bras before, he knew what they were, but he couldn’t understand the hook contraption at the back. It was clear where the breasts went (body parts he was much more comfortable looking at, by the way, and he squandered a couple of minutes lifting them just to feel their heft fall back down against his chest), and where the arms were meant to go, but he had no idea how to close it. After a couple minutes of desperate trying, he slumped. Who was he meant to shout for, who would come to his aid if he called? He didn’t want to risk the Weasley girl or even Granger, and Fleur was likely preoccupied with wedding preparations. He didn’t know if Tonks had arrived yet, and Mrs Weasley would be humiliating to ask. He wondered if he could forgo the bra, lifted the burdensome breasts again, and decided there was no way. 

Draco forced his borrowed trousers back on over his newly feminine legs and held them up with one hand while the shirt he had been wearing stretched precariously over his new chest. Awkwardly he shuffled from Ronald’s bedroom onto the top-floor landing, but there was no one there. 

“Hello?” he called tentatively, and nearly choked at the delicate, soft voice that came from his throat. “Goodness,” he observed, fascinated by his new voice. “Hello, is anyone around?” he asked more loudly, and then heard footsteps coming up the stairs. A curly-haired redhead stomped up, his slightly fleshy face covered in a sheen of sweat. Green dress robes didn’t suit him well. 

A male Weasley cousin wasn’t exactly who Draco was in the mood to see right now, but it was better than nothing. The boy in question noticed Draco - or Madeleine, really - and his current state of undress and turned a little pink around his freckled ears.

“Were you calling for help?” he asked, in a voice that sounded like it had a cold.

“I… um…” Draco trailed off, coughed, and swallowed his pride (which was hard, considering just how much he had). “Is there any chance you might know how to fasten a bra?”

The redhead turned redder. “I do… Don’t you?”

“… No…”

“Er, alright. Should I fetch someone else for you, maybe?”

“No, you’ll do. I don’t have time left to waste. I’m…” Draco struggled for a moment, unwilling to give Madeleine’s name away in case he embarrassed himself too much in her disguise. “I’m Delphine.”

“Barny,”the redhead answered, and it was all Draco could do not to wrinkle his nose. What an awful name. Draco silently led Barny into the bedroom and standing the two of them beside the bed. “Just out of curiosity, how don’t you know how to-”

Before Barny had finished his question, Draco shot him a glare which he hoped felt acidic and then shed his shirt. Barny had the good sense to cover his eyes while Draco positioned the cups around the ridiculous breasts and opened them again upon command. Barny had sweaty hands, and when they brushed against the small of Draco’s back he shivered. He didn’t much like the constricting sensation when the fasteners were done up.

“Too tight?” Barny asked.

“No, it’s fine,” Draco mumbled, and then looked sullenly at the dress. “Do you mind helping me with this, too? It fastens in the back.” 

“I guess,” Barny answered weakly, and Draco wondered if Barny was turned on. Draco didn’t find redheads attractive, but there was still something exhilarating about someone being so close to him when he was revealed like this. Especially… Especially as a woman. Barny didn’t look as Draco wiggled his borrowed body into the shiny silver dress, and then coughed in Madeleine’s delicate voice. Barny’s fingers pushed her hair over her shoulder and her skin burned where he touched it. He fumbled over the pearl buttons. When it was done, Draco spared himself a real glance into the mirror.

Madeleine was _beautiful_. Perhaps not quite as much as Fleur, but it was clear she came from good genetics. The hair was long and blonde and flowed like a silk scarf over the shoulder, over the truly monumental breasts. Her waist was narrow, but her hips were wide, leaving her with an appealing hourglass figure. Her eyes were brown, which was a disappointment. Draco liked his eyes. He only noticed Barny’s retreat when he was out the door.

“Thank you!” Draco called, in Madeleine’s gentle voice, but he wasn’t convinced he’d been heard. There were no shoes, so he imagined they’d be downstairs somewhere. There was no good place to store the Polyjuice in his clothes, so he carried it down the stairs with him and walked over to Mrs Weasley. She was elbows deep in breakfast dishes, prattling to Ginny about how disorganized she was. 

“Can I help you?” Mrs Weasley finally asked, showing no recognition of Draco.

“It’s me,” he said, and then added, “Draco. I need shoes, please?”

Mrs Weasley gasped. “Oh!” 

Draco blinked. 

“Sorry, dear, but you’re stunning. How do you feel?”

Draco shrugged. The truth was hard to explain. Ginny Weasley made a weird face that was close to a glare and then pointed at a pair of shiny silver shoes by the door. Draco was just grateful they didn’t have heels. He stepped into them and was about to go outside and find someone to complain to when Mrs Weasley called him back.

“Draco-! Oh, what should we call you?”

Draco stopped in the doorway. “Delphine,” he said tentatively, feeling a little shy.

“Well, we’ve just got to do something with that beautiful hair, dear!”

Draco stood still and let Mrs Weasley braid the long blonde hair and wrap it into a bundle at the back of his head. It pinched a couple of times and he had to suppress the urge to cuss her out; he knew Mrs Weasley wasn’t trying to hurt him, but it somehow still felt that way. Once the hair was approved of and Ginny’s suggestion of makeup was brushed aside (“She’s already a darling, Ginevra”), Draco was finally ready to go to Bill and Fleur’s wedding.

Well, ready was perhaps the wrong word, if the butterflies in his stomach were any indication. Still, he forced his unfamiliar body outside into the glorious July sunshine. The yard had been transformed over the past few days, and now the golden chairs were lining the purple carpet aisle. The tent poles were woven with flowers and balloons, and it was fluttering with cheerful insects looking to get a taste of the new plant life. Outside, there were so many people it made Draco feel faintly ill. Fleur’s little sister approached him and smiled, saying, “My sister said you are in disguise as our cousin,” and just as Fred - it was easier to tell them apart with the one having lost an ear - and tried flirtatiously to escort them into the house.

“It’s me, Fred,” Draco hissed, and something about his tone shocked the realization into him.

“Draco? Ugh,” Fred rolled his eyes and walked away, surely looking for another pretty blonde to hit on. Draco was unsteady in this body and wanted to dissolve into a puddle on the grass. Gabrielle patted Draco’s arm and then went off in search of her cousin. That same redhead who helped Draco dress was talking to Tonks and Lupin, for some reason; Draco couldn’t imagine why a Weasley cousin would know the two of them. Maybe they were just meeting for the first time. 

Draco was two rows back on the bride’s side, which suited him just fine. He watched the Lovegoods - _ugh_ \- arrive, wearing bright shades of yellow - _ugh!_ \- and greeting their friends. Barny noticed Draco and waved half-heartedly, and Draco decided to approach just as Luna Lovegood made her way over their way.

“Hello, Harry!” she chirped, and Draco went cold in his gut.

“Er - my name’s Barny,” said Barry.

“Oh, have you changed that too?” Barny looked at Draco and hesitated. Draco wasn’t about to throw him a bone, but Luna jumped in. “Do you not know each other’s disguise? I would have thought you Order people would talk a little more. Communication builds successful relationships, you know.”

“What are you talking about, Luna?” Barny demanded, looking completely out of his element. Ah, there it was - it was Potter. The dead-eyed, stupid, brainless look was so endearing.

“I’m Draco,” Draco supplied, and Potter-alias-Barny had an expression like he’d lost control of his bowels. “And you’re Potter.” Draco then turned to Luna. “How did you know-?”

“Oh, just your expressions. You boys are easy to read.”

Luna’s father came over from a conversation he’d been engaged in and introduced himself politely to both Draco and Potter, and then Luna held her finger out to her father. “Daddy, look - one of the gnomes actually bit me!”

“How wonderful! Gnome saliva is enormously beneficial,” Mr Lovegood had worked himself up into a bit of a frenzy, and snatched his daughter’s hand in his own and was expecting the blood on her hand before Draco could even roll his eyes at the absurdity of this man. “Luna, my love, if you should feel any burgeoning talent today - perhaps an unexpected urge to sing opera or to declaim in Mermish - do not repress it! You may have been gifted by the Gernumblies!”

Draco covered a laugh with a delicate hand just as Ronald passed and snorted. He was fairly certain he’d seen Ron give him a once-over, and shook his head. Women had power.

“-my father has done a lot of research on Gernumbli magic,” Luna was saying as she started in the direction of some golden chairs on the groom’s side. Draco watched them go. Ron was leading around an ugly old witch who was eagerly tearing into every single person’s choice in clothing, relationship, friendship - you name it, that witch was bitching about it. Draco rather liked her. 

Granger came outside dressed in purple, and she’d apparently tamed her bush of hair. Ron followed her like a dog, and got oddly defensive when a man showed up. _Hold on,_ Draco froze. _Viktor Krum was at Bill and Fleur’s wedding._ Draco hadn’t fancied Krum the way girls his year had, but he respected the man’s abilities. Besides, his father had always taught him the value of rubbing shoulders with the rich and influential, so it was only in Draco’s nature to be inclined to speak with him. Potter led Krum to his seat before finding his own. Draco sat himself back down in his own spot, two rows back on the Delacour side while Potter was in almost the same seat on the Weasley one. He wished he could stop staring, but Potter’s being shoved into the strange little redhead was hysterical as well as a little bit jarring. Like a train wreck.

The wedding was like the hundreds Draco had been to in his lifetime. Charlie looked particularly handsome, and Draco decided he’d have to reconsider his statement that all redheads were unattractive. Fleur came up the aisle with her father, and positively glowed in her very simple dress. Ginny and Gabrielle both stood at the front with the bride and groom but Draco couldn’t peel himself away from Fleur now. She had been kind to him in her own particular way that made Draco feel bonded to, even though her decision to force him into the guise of a woman as a little cruel. In other words, the wedding was boring and nothing new.

“… then I declare you bonded for life,” the wizard performing the ceremony finished, tuning Draco back in just in time to see the silver stars erupting from his wand and onto the entwined bodies of the bride and groom. Everyone clapped loudly, and the balloons exploded to reveal birds and bells. The noise was magnificent.

“Ladies and gentleman! If you would please stand up!”

Everyone did, and their seats and the tent walls vanished into the air. The chairs regrouped around tables, and Draco sat himself back down at an empty table while waiters popped up around the tent. Bill and Fleur were swarmed by well-wishers, but Draco figured he’d have time to find his friend later. Redheaded Potter and his friends sat with Luna Lovegood again, and Draco idly thought about joining them. Before he could make up his mind, Ron was catching his eye and waving him over, so his decision was made for him. 

Draco fell into a seat beside Potter just as the dancing started up, but he couldn’t focus. His arm was tingling suddenly, and he was worried it would erupt into the searing pain it often did after this sort of a warning. Luna disappeared after a time, replaced by the Quidditch legend, Viktor Krum himself. Draco had to remind himself to play a disinterested Veela woman instead of a Quidditch player. Ron swiftly demanded Granger dance with him.

“Who are you?” Krum asked Potter.

“Barny Weasley.”

Draco watched their uncomfortable handshake and noticed that Viktor seemed to show no interest in Draco or Madeleine or Delphine. None of the intricate people Draco had combined were alluring in any way to the famed athlete.

“You, Barny - you know this man Lovegood vell?”

“No, I only met him today. Why?”

Krum looked a little constipated. “Because if he vos not a guest of Fleur’s, I vould duel him, here and now, for vearing that filthy sign upon his chest.”

“Sign?” Potter asked, his chubby little face twisting with confusion. Draco followed their gazes and saw the necklace, though he wasn’t close to see anything except a triangle glinting in the sunlight. “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“Grindelvald. That is Grindelvald’s sign.”

The name sounded vaguely familiar, but he didn’t know much history. He’d been rather occupied with the whole ‘following the Dark Lord’ thing, especially in the last year, so he might just have missed the lesson. Krum ranted on for a little while about the people that Grindelwald had killed.

“Are you - er - quite sure it’s Grindelwald’s -?“ Potter was asking.

“I am not mistaken. I valked past that sign for several years, I know it vell.”

“Well, there’s a chance that Xenophilius doesn’t actually know what the symbol means. The Lovegoods are quite… unusual. He could easily have picked it up somewhere and think it’s a cross section of the head of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack or something.”

Draco felt himself laughing again and had to rein in it when Krum’s dark eyes trapped him in a glare. The two men spoke together and Draco spaced out, watching the dance floor. Luna Lovegood looked like she was having a fit, and Ron and Granger were having a sort of awkward dance together, but he was glad that they were giggling. They spoke about wand-makers, something Draco found overwhelmingly boring. 

“This girl is very nice-looking,” Krum said, pointing at Ginny Weasley as she approached Luna Lovegood. “She is also a relative of yours?”

Something flitted across Potter’s face and he swallowed. “Yeah, and she’s seeing someone. Jealous type. Big bloke. You wouldn’t want to cross him.”

Krum grunted. “Vot is the point of being an international Quidditch player if all the good-looking girls are taken?”

Krum disappeared then, stalking away angrily. Barny glanced over and made a humming noise. “I can’t believe you’re Draco.”

Draco sneered. “I can’t believe you allowed them to make you into a redhead.”

Potter ran a hand through the ginger curls self-consciously and laughed quietly. He glanced over at Ginny again, and Draco felt like he was boiling. He didn’t say anything lest he reveal too much, and waited until Potter sighed and spoke instead.

“I don’t want to be with her anymore, really, but Merlin,” Potter made a vague gesture in the direction of the Weasley daughter, who was dancing with an attractive-ish Gryffindor student Draco recognized from the Quidditch announcements. “It’s hard to watch that.”

“Why are you jealous if you don’t want to be with her anymore?” Draco asked delicately.”

Potter laughed and shook his head. “Too much to get into at a wedding, trust me. Some other time.”

Draco let it go for now, but there was no way he was going to forget. “Must be frustrating,” he mumbled, looking down at his itching arm and remembering the Dark Mark wasn’t there in this form. It scared him that he could feel it when he wasn’t himself - that meant the Mark was imprinted on more than his skin.

“It can be. Would you like to dance?”

“With me?” Draco nearly choked. Even though this wasn’t the Potter he wanted, any incarnation of Potter would work well enough for him.

“You make a pretty girl.”

This was almost an insult, but Draco was good at dancing. Not so good at leading, but he knew the steps well enough to follow Potter. There were a lot of beautiful visual effects, and they danced together for much of the afternoon. At one point they stopped their dancing to take a sip of Polyjuice potion from their flasks waiting inside, and after they did there was a moment of silent contemplation as the slimy liquid worked its way down both of their throats. Draco scrunched up his nose and gagged. 

“Cute, that,” Potter observed, and Draco stretched out his tongue.

“I am, rather, aren’t I?”

And it happened so quickly Draco almost missed it, the movement Potter made so that they were standing only inches from each other. A hand, small of his back, another on his waist. Thighs against thighs, soft bulge Draco tried to ignore against his lack of one. Breasts against heaving chest. They were like that for only a moment before they became lips against lips.

Draco melted into it and his whole body burned with the want of more. He wanted Potter in every way he could have him, even if the redhead was less appealing than the usual black hair and piercing green eyes. Draco decided not to consider the implications, that maybe Potter was only attracted because he was a girl. There were teeth grating his lips and a tingling spreading from mouth through chest through stomach. They were both a little sticky with July humidity and had to pull away far too soon to catch their breaths. Draco wanted another kiss but Potter was clearly done, because he made his way outside without another word. He didn’t feel used, but maybe he should. After a while Draco made his way back outside after splashing some water from the tap on his flaming cheeks and making sure he was still presentable. Walking outside hit him like a wall of muggy heat, but Draco finally found time to speak with Fleur - congratulating her in his flowery way and embracing before ribbing her for choosing Madeleine as his disguise.

“Well, it ‘as ‘elped you find a dance partner, no? And a rather dashing one,” she added with a wink, and Draco nearly jumped out of his skin.

“You know?”

“Of course, _cher_. I am French,” she explained breezily, waving a hand, “I know love like I know ze back of my hand.”

Draco was glad someone knew, though it frightened him that it was such an obvious thing. He sat down tentatively with Potter who was speaking with an old witch and wizard, and was glad the other boy was too preoccupied to talk about what had happened. Granger pulled up a chair and slipped her shoe off, rubbing at one of her feet. Draco was tentative, because she wasn’t his biggest fan, but she was clearly in good spirits if a little tired. She and Draco exchanged a little smalltalk before she finally clued in that Potter wasn’t really present.

“Harry, are you okay?”

Potter’s disguised face shifted a little, like he was thinking about what to say, but before he could speak a word a lynx Patronus dropped in the middle of the dance floor and spoke in Kingsley Shacklebolt’s low voice. _“The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Yeah, well I saw a snake in an apple tree  
> You know I didn't trust a word that he hissed to me, no!  
> Yeah he said, 'It must be getting awful lonely trying to save the world;  
> Just buy a collared shirt and try to fuck some girls.'
> 
> He said, 'If you value your limbs, stay in the game  
> If you value the game, stay in that style  
> If you value that style, you're sinking son  
> And if you don't want to sink, then you better run.'"  
> -'Word of Mouth,' Shakey Graves


	11. Another Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy, beautiful people! Hopefully the last chapter was pleasant enough, though I think I'm happier with this one. Like I said, my family's applied to adopt a dog, and we get to meet her during the home visit on Sunday morning. Basically, the foster family is going to come and see if we'd be a good fit, but they've already done our interview and called our references so we have a REALLY good chance of getting the girl we applied for. She is so gorgeous and I am so excited but I will be CRUSHED if we don't get her because I've built it up now that we will. Do some wishing for me, please <3

Draco’s wand was out before he could think about the implications of it all. No one was making very much noise, because the reality hadn’t set in yet. Somebody screamed.

Draco followed Potter and Granger because he couldn’t think of a better plan, as people frantically Disapparated away from the Burrow.

“Ron! Ron, where are you?” Granger was shouting, and it was all Draco could do not to get lost amidst the chaos. Draco’s blood ran cold when he saw the hooded people in those all-too-familiar masks and he forgot to breathe when he saw Lupin and Tonks pressed against each other with their wands drawn. “Ron! Ron!”

Potter grabbed Granger’s hand, and almost as an afterthought he caught Draco’s as well. Granger didn’t notice, but Draco felt suddenly much more at ease with the weight of Potter’s chubby disguised fingers against his delicate ones. The three of them ducked under a spell gone rogue and found Ron. He took Granger’s arm and she turned suddenly. There was the awful lurch of Apparating, and Draco took a breath before opening his eyes.

“Where are we?” Ron asked.

They were in a road full of people dressed in the strange Muggle fashions Draco had been learning to adjust to. “Tottenham Court Road,” Granger panted, dragging her friends along after her, still not even looking at Draco. “Walk, just walk, we need to find somewhere for you to change.”

They did a sort of jog to keep up with her through the dark street. There were lamps and buses that looked a bit like things Draco had seen before, but it was clear the Muggles weren’t well-adjusted to the sight of dress robes. Some people were giggling.

“Hermione, we haven’t got anything to change into.”

“Why didn’t I make sure I had the Invisibility Cloak with me? All last year I kept it on me and-” 

“You have an _Invisibility Cloak?_ ” Draco cut Potter off, curious. 

Granger froze then, stopped in her tracks so abruptly that her friends jerked at the suddenness of it all. It seemed not to matter to her now that they were so exposed to the Muggles and she stared at Potter’s hand linked with Draco’s. 

“Why did you bring _him_?” she demanded, as if suddenly realizing that he was there at all. “Harry!”

Potter looked ashamed of himself but he squared his shoulders. “What was I going to do, Hermione, leave him to be killed?”

“We left everybody else behind! You don’t think Ron wanted to save his Mum, or Ginny?”

Ron’s face twitched. Draco felt guilty about being brought along, but it was a consolation that Granger’s rage wasn’t aimed in his direction. 

“I trust him,” Potter said quietly.

“You don’t speak for all of us, Harry!” Granger was going a bit shrill. Potter shot her a glance that Draco couldn’t place, and then she sobered. There was a quiet moment before she set off walking again. “You know, I’ve got the Cloak, I’ve got clothes for the two of you,” she said, and then glanced at Draco and shook her head, “nothing for you, though. Just try and act naturally until - this will do.”

They were all dragged down a side street into an alleyway. “When you say you’ve got the Cloak, and clothes…” Potter frowned at Granger. Draco found it exceedingly unlikely that Granger was carrying anything at all, because the tiny little handbag she was carrying couldn’t be holding all she claims to have brought.

“Yes, they’re here,” she said, rather exasperated, and thrust clothes into the hands of both of the boys. Draco watched idly, feeling a little uncomfortable to still be wearing his robes. Granger shoved her hand back in and dragged out another pile of clothes. She grimaced and held them out to Draco.

“Hey, those are mine!” Ron protested weakly, but Draco’s grateful smile dissolved some of his rage. He was easier to convince into liking Draco when he was still a pretty girl. “How in the ruddy hell-?” he demanded of Granger as she pulled out a silvery cloak and pushed it into Potter’s hands.

“Undetectable Extension Charm. Tricky, but I think I’ve done it okay; anyway, I managed to fit everything we need in here,” she boasted, shaking the bag and eliciting the noise of heavy things banging into each other. “Oh, damn, that’ll be the books… And I had them all stacked by subject… Oh well… Harry, you’d better take the Invisibility Cloak. Ron, Malfoy, hurry up and change…”

“When did you do all this?” still-redheaded Potter asked while Draco and Ron stripped out of their clothes. Draco covered himself with the dress as he removed the female undergarments and slipped on Ron’s clothes instead. Even though they were a little baggy, he figured the Polyjuice was bound to wear off soon and he’d rather be a girl in boy’s clothing for a while than be stuck in a tiny woman’s dress when he changed back.

“I told you at the Burrow, I’ve had the essentials packed for days, you know, in case we needed to make a quick getaway. I packed your rucksack this morning, Harry, after you changed, and put it in here… I just had a feeling…”

“You’re amazing, you are,” Ron replied, handing her his robes. Draco passed over the pretty blue dress a little wistfully, and the bra almost fell from the pile. It was a little uncomfortable to have the heavy breasts unsupported, but it was a necessary evil. 

Granger smiled and shoved everybody’s cast-off clothes into the bag. Draco was still unfortunately wearing girl’s shoes, but there was nothing to be done there. He held the pants up best he could with both fists, shoving his wand deep into his pocket.

“Please, Harry, get that Cloak on!” Granger begged. Potter did as he was told without argument, throwing the shiny Cloak over his head. He was gone before Draco could blink - it was jarring, but made more so when Potter talked from underneath.

“The others - everyone at the wedding-”

“We can’t worry about that now,” Granger whispered back. “It’s you they’re after, Harry, and well just put everyone in even more danger by going back.”

“She’s right,” Ron added. “Most of the Order was there, they’ll look after everyone.”

Draco focused mostly on keeping the pants up over his waist and stumbled tiredly after his companions. He wondered if his mother or father had been among the Death Eaters that had raided the wedding. He gently touched the furrow of his brow, and even though it was Madeleine’s still, he tried to feel his mother’s strength through it. Granger spared a glance at Draco.

“You should go under the Cloak with Harry; you’re bound to turn back soon.”

Draco flushed, but she had a point. He saw Potter’s hand emerge from the shimmery fabric and he let the Chosen One pull him under the fabric. It was hard to conceal the two of them completely, but with the right maneuvering - which included touching every part of their body to each other tightly - they managed it. Draco’s head went a little muddy, since he could feel Potter’s breath against his ear coming in raggedy sounds, and there was the presence of his warm body, not his yet but still a warm body that was housing Potter’s everything else, that sent Draco on a bit of a spiral. He had to focus in order to make his way down the street.

Granger was being catcalled by a handful of Muggles, and Draco thought halfheartedly about how pleased he was to be hidden under the Invisibility Cloak rather than be shouted at by inferior men about his female body. As he thought it, he felt the wholly uncomfortable sensation of changing back, his body stretching free of its female casing and returning to Draco. He didn’t have to hold the pants up anymore, though they weren’t quite so loose.

“Let’s sit somewhere,” Granger said, and they all followed her into a shabby building illuminated by some harsh and unfamiliar domes on the ceiling. Draco stared in awe at the textures all around him, from the shininess of the tabletops, and the weird colours of the seats. He and Potter sat so close Draco was nearly in his lap, both of them returned to normal. When Draco looked at his companion out of the corner of his eye, he could see the mess of black hair and the set of his jaw. Draco shivered.

“You know, we’re not far from the Leaky Cauldron here, it’s only in Charing Cross-” Ron started to say, and Draco wanted to jump at the idea. He’d decided he didn’t like Muggle things one bit.

“Ron, we can’t!” Granger answered a little shrilly.

“Not to stay there, but to find out what’s going on!”

“We know what’s going on! Voldemort’s taken over the Ministry, what else do we need to know?”

“Okay, okay, it was just an idea!”

Draco’s heart had tripped at the Dark Lord’s name, shocked that even Granger dared to say it. Mudbloods - Merlin-be-damned, Muggle-borns; Draco still struggled with that as hard as he tried - should be particularly scared of the Dark Lord. Draco had seen it on his family’s dining room table. He worried about his mother again, faintly, but he got immediately sidetracked by the weird outfit the waitress was wearing. It was cut just above her knee, and a faint blue. It was a dress, but unlike ones Draco had seen. Granger ordered two drinks that Draco couldn’t even begin to pronounce, and he wished he could have had something too.

A pair of men dropped in at the table beside theirs, and Granger decided to whisper. Draco really doubted Muggles would know or care what they were talking about, but he and Potter both leaned in reflexively to hear her better.

“I say we find a quiet place to Disapparate and head for the countryside. Once we’re there, we could send a message to the Order.”

“Can you do that talking Patronus thing, then?” Ron asked.

“I’ve been practicing and I think so,” Granger replied. This shocked Draco for two reasons, because one: he’d been taught his entire life that Muggleborns were worthless, disgusting excuses for wizards and this was hard magic, and two: Draco had never been able to even produce a Patronus. His mother had tried to teach him in third year, and then again in his fifth, but all he’d managed were wispy grey clouds so pathetic Draco was sure a Dementor would forget that it sucked happiness and laugh right in his face. Think of your happiest memory? _Ha_.

Potter was looking at him, looked away when he realized he’d been caught. Draco wondered if they would talk about the kiss, whether it meant Harry had been attracted to Madeleine or if had been some spur-of-the-moment impulse. Draco knew it wasn’t time to talk about this, but before he could tune back into the conversation, the men at the table next of them were on their feet with wands out. Draco had not a damned clue what to do, but he felt Potter go for his wand and mirrored the action. Ron tackled Granger down onto the bench just as a spell cracked over the table and hit the wall, sending shards of tile across the table.

“ _Stupefy!_ ” Potter yelled, startling Draco and making his right ear ring something awful. The bigger of the Death Eaters - Draco knew his name, but couldn’t remember it - hit the bench, unconscious. Draco recognized the other Death Eater, Dolohov, just as a spell he cast bound Ron head-to-foot in black ropes that reminded Draco of snakes. Potter hit the waitress in the blue dress with a Stunning Spell accidentally. Dolohov blew up a table, and the blowback threw both Draco and Harry into a wall. The Cloak slipped free, and Draco was glad to be free of it.

“ _Petrificus Totalus!_ ” Granger screamed and Dolohov hit the floor. 

Draco looked across the aftermath of the fight, panting, before glancing at Potter. The Boy Who Lived had a hollow look about him, but met Draco’s eyes with his heartbreakingly green ones and curved his lips weakly. Draco tried to return the gesture before walking over to Dolohov, who was wide awake but frozen stiff. The noise he made in the back of his throat made Draco aware that the Death Eater was surprised to see him here.

“Hello, Antonin,” Draco greeted him mildly, and then spat on his shirt. 

“Who?” Potter asked, coming over. Dolohov’s eyes reeled between the four of them and he made a panicked noise.

“Antonin Dolohov. I’m actually rather surprised he went down quite so easily,” Draco murmured, and then stepped over some broken glass and looked at the blond Death Eater. “I recognize his face, but I can’t remember his name.”

“Thorfinn Rowle, I think,” Ron supplied.

“I believe you’re right,” Draco agreed.

“Never mind what they’re called!” Granger screeched, always one to ruin things. “How did they find us? What are we going to do?”

Potter was suddenly revived set his jaw. It was clear he had a plan, and Draco was glad for it. “Lock the door, and Ron, turn out the lights.”

Granger went for the door and Ron pulled a silver lighter from his pocket and clicked it. The room they were in went suddenly black, and it took Draco a moment to blink the fuzziness of the dark away and see the outlines of the men on the floor again. Both he and Potter stared at Dolohov.

“What are we going to do with them?” Ron asked. “Kill them? They’d kill us. They had a good go just now.”

“They would, without a doubt,” Draco agreed. “If you spared them now, they’d be aiming for it again as soon as they regained their footing. It’s nearly impossible to escape the Dark Lord, I…” 

“But not entirely impossible,” Potter added gently, “if you have a little help.”

Draco warmed from Potter’s reassuring smile. “There’s no hope for Dolohov. Trust me.”

“We just need to wipe their memories. It’s better like that, it’ll throw them off the scent. If we killed them it’d be obvious we were here.”

“Not if we hid the bodies,” Draco argued Potter’s point, but the look he got from Granger shut him down. He couldn’t understand why they would pass up an opportunity to take two Death Eaters out of the opposition.

“You’re the boss,” Ron said to Potter, “but I’ve never done a Memory Charm.”

“Nor have I, but I know the theory,” Granger said, and then exhibited one flawlessly. Dolohov’s eyes went from frantic to unfocused. 

“Brilliant! Take care of the other one while we clean up,” Potter ordered, clapping Granger on the back in a way that was so awkward Draco cringed from secondhand embarrassment. Both Draco and Ron exchanged looks.

“Why would we clean up?”

“Don’t you think they might wonder what’s happened if they wake up and find themselves in a place that looks like it’s just been bombed? The last thing we need is this being on the news.”

Potter had a point. Draco slid his wand out of his Muggle clothes and started to restore things at once, while Ron and Granger bantered. While the two of them continued in their spat which Draco knew was full of sexual tension, Potter flicked his wand with a note of finality and then came over to Draco and dropped his voice.

“Do you mind if I talk to you in the kitchen for a moment?” Draco’s heart sped up so quickly he was a little worried it might work itself to death. It was clear Granger and Ron were too busy arguing to notice or care, so Draco nodded. “Guys, we’ll just be a minute. I’ve got to talk to Draco about something.”

Draco cringed, but the other two barely acknowledged Potter, except Granger, who said, “Just don’t take too long, Harry, please.”

Draco’s stomach was doing acrobatics as he followed Potter through the metal door to the kitchen, catching his first glimpse of it through the little porthole window. Once safely inside, Potter made sure it was shut and turned to Draco. Draco could feel a vague anxious fluttering making itself known in his bowels but chose to ignore it, meeting Potter’s focused gaze with an intense one of his own. Neither of them seemed to know what to say.

“Well, what is it then, Potter?” Draco demanded, folding his arms over his thankfully flat chest.

“Um…”

“We haven’t the time for this.”

“Right. Just hard to get it out, I guess. I…”

“Stop trailing off! Merlin, Potter, I know what you’re trying to say. I understand completely; it was a mistake, an impulse brought on by a pretty girl - if I do say so myself - and you’ve just broken it off with the Weaslette, it’s not as if-”

Potter laughed aloud, cutting Draco’s rambled rationalizations to an end. “God, I never figured you were thick.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s-” Potter shook his head, grinning. “That’s the opposite of what I was going to say.”

“I don’t understand, Potter, what-!” before Draco could finish his sentence, Potter was on him like a child at Honeyduke’s. The force of Potter’s eagerness slammed Draco into a metal counter, sending a shockwave of pain up his spine. He barely had time to react to the injury because Potter’s tongue was in his mouth and there were hands cupping his buttocks, lifting him to the counter so he could wrap his legs comfortable around Potter’s waist and kiss him, kiss him, kiss him. He couldn’t remember where they were except that Potter smelled faintly of a weak cologne and perspiration, couldn’t taste anything except warmth, couldn’t hear anything except the rushing of his heart to keep up with the emotions flooding him.

Potter’s hand gripped the back of his neck and held him there, and he could feel the desperate clutch of fingers at his skin. Potter pulled away suddenly, and Draco went to complain, except Potter tilted his neck to the side and started kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin there. In the soft part of his neck where it met his collarbone, Potter bit down particularly hard and Draco yelped and then immediately sunk into the sensation of the sharp little prickles of nipping and sucking against his flesh. His entire abdomen was on fire and he wanted Potter’s body on his, in his, around his - any way he could have him, he wanted to.

Potter pulled away with a sloppy-sounding pop and had a smug air about him. Both were panting, but Draco’s breaths came out in ragged gasps.

“I was wrong,” Draco managed, slipping down from the counter on legs that felt like they’d jelled and nearly falling to the ground. Potter caught Draco, and when Draco looked at him he wiped the spot of drool from corner of the Chosen One’s lip and then planted a kiss there.

“Very,” Potter answered hoarsely. There was a beat, and then he added: “We should…”

“Return to reality?”

“Come back down earth,” Potter agreed.

But neither of them made any move to leave the kitchen, and Draco did something he hadn’t been expecting. He hooked his arms around Potter’s neck and stuck his face against Potter’s cheek, holding him there tightly for a couple seconds before Potter reacted and pulled him closer. And this… this wasn’t like the kisses, the desperate horny bid to love and be loved. This was tender in a way Draco was not sure was his best idea, and thought, idly, just before they pulled apart: _This will be the end of me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And I wanna kiss you, make you feel alright  
> I'm just so tired to share my nights  
> I wanna cry and I wanna love  
> But all my tears have been used up.
> 
> On another love, another love  
> All my tears have been used up  
> On another love, another love  
> All my tears have been used up  
> On another love, another love  
> All my tears have been used up.
> 
> Oh oh   
> And if somebody hurts you, I wanna fight  
> But my hands been broken, one too many times  
> So I'll use my voice, I'll be so fucking rude  
> Words they always win, but I know I'll lose."  
> -'Another Love,' Tom Odell


	12. Let Me Down Slowly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everybody! News on the dog front: guess who's coming to her forever home from the rescue on Sunday? That's right, we're getting a dog. This might very well mean my writing/uploading schedule is even more sporadic, but I'm going to try to keep up at least some semblance of an interest in this fic. I like writing it but I also have the attention span of a fruit fly, so we'll see how well I keep up now that we'll have a high-energy dog to navigate.
> 
> Enjoy the newest chapter!

Potter’s plan was to take them to Grimmauld Place, which Draco liked the sound of - there were nooks and crannies where he could pull Potter into, hiding from Granger and Weasley in the shadows of the old house. 

“Don’t be silly, Harry, Snape can get in there!” Granger argued, and Draco chewed on his lip anxiously. Potter looked deliciously rumpled, but his attention had been drawn to the itching on his forearm instead. The Mark was acting up feebly.

“Ron’s dad said they’ve put up jinxes against him - and even if they haven’t worked, so what? I swear, I’d like nothing better than to meet Snape!” Potter was clearly the leader, or at least he thought.

“Stupid,” Draco commented.

“But-” Granger tried.

“Hermione, where else is there? It’s the best chance we’ve got. Snape’s only one Death Eater. If I’ve still got the Trace on me, we’ll have whole crowds of them on us wherever else we go.”

Nobody had much to say to that. Draco still thought it was stupid, since he knew what Snape was capable of; he was terrified of running into the old Potions master himself, actually, because he had failed the Dark Lord. He would be thrust right back into his family’s ways if he was caught. Ron re-ignited the little building they were in and the Stunned victims were freed from their bindings. Draco waited to Apparate for a moment, and then went.

He sucked in a breath and stared at Potter’s house. It towered over the street, looking shabby and magnificent at once. Draco glanced at Potter, and he looked much the same as his house. They crossed the street to the door and Potter tapped it open with his wand. It was dimly-lit as usual and smelled like dust.

“I think somebody’s been in here,” Granger whispered, pointing at the umbrella stand tipped over on its side.

“That could’ve happened as the Order left,” Ron answered.

“So where are these jinxes they put up against Snape?” Harry asked.

“Maybe they’re only activated if he shows up?” 

Draco leaned into Potter’s shoulder for a breath, feeling the warm pressure of the Chosen One right there, right now, and sighed. No one was especially eager to walk any further into the hallway in fear of activating a trap, and Draco got cocky.

“There’s nothing here,” he announced dramatically, pushing ahead to the front of the back and gesturing at the musty hallway, “just the damned portraits and an old troll leg. You’re all-” 

Before Draco could finish his voice, a whispered voice like a ghost’s came from the gloom. “Severus Snape?”

Draco’s blood ran cold but he had nowhere to go. There was a frigid breeze that passed over the group of them, and then his tongue felt knotted. He choked on it for a moment before it returned to normal, and he looked around to see his companions experiencing the same unpleasantness.

“He’s gone!” Draco wailed.

“That m-must have b-been the T-Tongue-Tying Curse Mad-Eye set up for Snape!” Granger explained.

Draco was shuddering something awful, so Potter took the next brave steps down the hall. The shadows moved suddenly and Dumbledore was there, except he was a rotting, festering corpse and Granger was wailing and Auntie Walburga was screaming and Potter was shouting: “No! No! It wasn’t us! We didn’t kill you-!” 

And Dumbledore exploded into dust, but not before Draco thought it: I did. I did kill you.

Potter clearly hadn’t thought of that, and he wiped his eyes. Granger was crouched with her arms over her head and Ron was trying his best to comfort her. Draco realized then just how hard he himself was shaking, and spared a glance at Potter and wished for his comfort. Before Potter could even look at him, he turned to the portrait of Draco’s aunt and screamed “SHUT UP!” casting a burst of red sparks in her direction. Auntie Walburga’s curtains snapped shut and so did her mouth. Draco wouldn’t have used violence with her, but he was glad she’d stopped screaming at least.

“That… that was…” Granger got to her feet shakily, leaning on Ron.

“Yeah, but it wasn’t really him, was it? Just something to scare Snape.”

Granger raised her wand to check for any further danger, but she couldn’t manage even a small detection spell. Draco didn’t expect he’d do any better - with the way his hands were shaking, his wand would sooner be flung across the hall before he’d be able to hold it steady.

“Well, you’ve just had a big shock. What was that supposed to do?” Ron asked.

“It did what I meant it to do!” Hermione growled. “That was a spell to reveal human presence, and there’s nobody here except us!”

Draco had to suppress a laugh; Ron and Potter wouldn’t catch it, but Granger was blatantly lying. The spell would have emanated a yellow pulse of light throughout the house, but Draco supposed the boys didn’t need to know that. Quietly, he cast a detection spell of his own and found that they were actually safe, watching the yellow pulse dissipate across the floorboards.

Draco followed the group of them up the stairs to the drawing room on the first floor, suppressing a sneeze at the newly-disturbed dust that had begun clogging his nostrils. He immediately fell into the chaise and watched the group of Gryffindors light the cold room. Draco couldn’t tell if he was shivering from the temperature or the shock, but decided it didn’t matter much. Ron poked his nose out through the curtains.

“Can’t see anyone out there, and you’d think, if Harry still had a Trace on him, they’d have followed us here. I know they can’t get in the house, but -”

Whatever Ron was saying rang deaf in Draco’s ears the moment Potter cried out. Draco’s blood immediately rushed to his head and he nearly fell headfirst into the threadbare carpet in his effort to get to Potter’s side on the sofa across the room. Granger raised an eyebrow in Draco’s direction and moved closer to Potter, and so he sat back down on his chaise and brooded over the pain he knew Potter was in from as far away as he could manage.

“What did you see?” Ron asked, suddenly anxious. “Did you see him at my place?”

“No, I just felt anger - he’s really angry-”

“But that could be at the Burrow. What else? Didn’t you see anything? Was he cursing someone?”  
“Leave him alone,” Draco mumbled without thinking, and Ron started to close in on him instead of Potter.

“What was that, then?”

“Leave Potter alone. He told you what he knows.”

“It’s alright, Malfoy,” Potter piped up faintly. “I just felt anger, Ron, I couldn’t tell-”

“Your scar, again? But what’s going on? I thought that connection had closed?” Granger asked then, and Draco felt close to speaking up again.

“It did, for a while. I - I think it’s started opening again whenever he loses control, that’s how it used to-” Potter was talking through gritted teeth, and Draco could see the agony still there in his eyes.

“But then you’ve got to close your mind! Harry, Dumbledore didn’t want you to use that connection, he wanted you to shut it down, that’s why you were supposed to use Occlumency! Otherwise-”

“ _Do_ shut up, Granger!” Draco finally shouted and rose from the chaise, crossing the room to Potter and Granger on the sofa. “You’ve no idea what it’s like.”

Granger looked like she wanted to respond, but before she could Draco had Potter by the upper arm and was tugging the rather numb-looking Chosen One to his feet and leading him from the room. Potter stumbled once or twice over the old carpets that had long lost their colour. When they passed through the doorway Draco stopped to let Potter to collect himself, and it was only a moment before Potter had slumped against Draco pathetically, drawing deep, staggering breaths.

“You’re alright, Potter,” Draco mumbled awkwardly and patted Potter on the shoulder blade. He wasn’t used to this level of contact, and especially not from someone who was his mortal enemy only two months ago. “There, there.”

Granger shrieked in the other room and Potter stiffened, about to pull away when they heard Mr Weasley’s voice coming through a Patronus. That was all it took for Potter to relax back into Draco’s arms, just out of sight of his best friends.

“They’re all right, they’re all right!” Granger squeaked.

“Harry!” Ron shouted, and Potter pulled back with the ghost of a smile on his lips to reappear back in the doorway. “My family’s alright, d’you hear? I-”

“It’s not a problem,” Potter answered weakly. “It’s your family, ‘course you’re worried. I’d feel the same way. I _do_ feel the same way.”

Potter looked ready to faint. Draco saw the last bits of colour leave his cheeks just as Granger was trying to bring up sleeping plans. Vaguely, Draco’s Mark itched and he cursed himself - he couldn’t hurt like this when he needed to take care of Potter instead. The Mark licked at his very veins and climbed into his heart through their pathways, and though the fire was painful he managed to grip onto the reality of Potter running towards the bathroom. Draco followed because he had no idea how to help and jammed his foot in the bathroom door before Potter could shut it in his face.

Draco had seen people have fits before, especially by way of the Cruciatus Curse, but this was different in a way he wasn’t expecting. Potter grabbed his own head and then collapsed on the floor like he’d just been killed, and then he twisted on the ground, muttering but not screaming, in a voice that was not quite his own. Draco didn’t know the rules here - should he touch him, should he not? Should he call for help, or would Potter value his privacy? Instead of waiting for an answer, Draco sat himself on the grimy bathroom floor (he tried not to think about it) and pulled Potter’s head into his lap. Potter’s cheeks emanated the heat of flames, and his fists swung at nothing through his muttering. 

“It’s okay, Potter,” Draco murmured, still the whispered nothingness that didn’t seem to help all that much. “Come on, now, you’ll be fine.”

The Mark reared its ugly, painful head again and Draco gritted his teeth so he wouldn’t bite off his own tongue. His clenched jaw began to ache with the force of his bite but it was the pain in his face that distracted him from the licking and ebbing at his forearm. The Dark Lord was calling his Death Eaters, and Draco was ignoring the call. He just hoped he wouldn’t be called personally.

“Find him,” Potter mumbled hollowly, still in that same cold tone that didn’t suit him. “Bring him.”

Draco didn’t know what Potter would see but by the twisted look on his face it must have been something particularly difficult. Draco carded his hands through the messy black hair that was starting to mat with sweat, whispering the empty comforts until Potter heaved in a single breath and flung his bright green eyes open. He sat up so quickly he nearly broke Draco’s nose with his forehead and then whirled on him with an expression of horror on his face.

“You,” he choked.

“Me,” Draco replied tentatively.

“You’re safe, you’re here.”

“As are you.”

Potter glanced at Draco’s lips and for a glorious moment Draco was expecting a kiss, but before either of them moved to do it Granger was in the doorway and they scrambled to get apart from each other.

“Do you want your toothbrush, Harry? I packed it,” Granger looked down her nose at the two of them. “I don’t know what you’ll do, Malfoy, I hadn’t been expecting… company.”

“It’s alright, Granger, I’m adept enough I’m sure I can charm away whatever needs to be done.”

She left the brush on the counter and walked away again, leaving the two boys alone in the bathroom, glancing at each other through ragged pants. Draco’s Mark was hurting to the point of making him crazy, but not quite enough to make him black out like it had the night at the Burrow. Potter stood at the sink and started to brush his teeth numbly, and Draco stood and worked up the courage to ask what he wanted to ask.

“What did you see?”

Something flashed across Potter’s face before he reined it in. “Nothing.”

“You’re lying.”

“Nothing important.”

Draco snorted. “If the Dark Lord’s that mad, it must really be something. Merlin, Potter, you’re going to get a complex about trusting me now?”

Potter spat and didn’t answer.

“I refuse to let up my line of questioning until you tell me what you saw, you-”

And then Potter kissed him, his mouth newly-minted and delightful. Potter kissed Draco in such a way he forgot whatever sentence had been cut off, because the insistent tongue was pressing against his in such a way Draco nearly collapsed onto the black marble and had a fit of his own. It was short-lived, and when Potter pulled away he smiled faintly. Draco’s arm ebbed and he tried to think up a good reason to demand their lips meet again. Before he could find one, Potter nodded, turned on his heel, and disappeared, leaving Draco to stand in the mirror and press his fingertips against his lips, trying to recreate the absolute rush that had just up and strolled into the drawing room.

#

Draco slept in the same bedroom he had stayed in when the Order had still occupied Grimmauld Place, but it was the worst sort of sleep. The Mark still tingled painfully and his mind reeled around whatever vision Potter had seen that had rocked him so. Draco knew he was easily distracted and was disappointed he’d let Potter cut off his questions with his mouth, but the kiss had been a good one.

Too good.

Draco managed to scrape together a couple fitful hours of sleep and woke in the late morning with a forearm that still throbbed dully and a head stuffed with cotton wool. He walked over to the window and looked out at the street, which was a little grimy and covered in coloured bits of trash. Draco was just about to shimmy into the jeans that were too big when the sharp rap of knuckles startled him.

“Malfoy?” 

“Come in, Potter.”

And he shuffled in, wrapped in a blanket that once must have been luxurious but now looked cheap, his hair looking for all the world like he’d just been through a tornado. Potter pushed his glasses up his nose and hummed at the back of his throat.

“Morning.”

“Good morning,” Draco answered, licking at his own bottom lip. Potter looked rumpled and shabby, which shouldn’t have worked but _did_. “Have you been awake long?”

“Too long,” Potter grumbled.

Draco crossed the room tentatively to Potter, keeping his distance lest he scare the Chosen One away. His eery movement was calculated in order not to shock Potter with the fact that he was at least partially homosexual, and even more worrisome the fact that he was partially homosexual for a Death Eater. _Speaking of which_ … Draco spared a glance at his Mark and noticed it was still inky black. Merlin. After a moment’s hesitation, Draco raised his hand to Potter’s face and cupped his cheek, feeling the surprising softness of the skin against his palm.

“Do you intend to tell me just what you saw last night?” Draco needled and instantly saw the hardening in Potter’s expression. “Before that spectacular kiss, I mean. There was something you saw that you refuse to tell me.”

Potter took a deep breath and shook his head. “I’ve got to talk to you,” he responded, ignoring the question. “That’s what I came in for.”

Draco dropped his hand, sensing the conversation wasn’t about to be a lovey-dovey one. He studied Potter’s features closely, thinking that if this was the last time he’d be able to see them this close he ought to remember them as best he could. There was the downward quirk of the mouth, the dark brow furrowed, the green eyes shadowed but still a colour so brilliant it looked fake. 

Draco cleared his throat. “By all means, speak.”

Potter had a hard time getting it out, but he managed to croak: “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“The kissing, the dating, whatever this is…” Potter itched the back of his neck and Draco took a step back.

“You thought us dating? If we’ve been, these are absolutely rubbish dates.”

“You know what I mean.”

And Draco did know what he meant, of course he did. There were feelings involved, as much as he hated that fact, and it was bound to end in disaster. He could never be the perfect companion to the Chosen One - and if he was being honest, Draco didn’t know what Potter wanted at all; he didn’t know if Potter was falling for him or just looking for a warm body to press his against when the going got hard. 

“I don’t believe I do.”

Potter coloured a little and Draco saw his hands ball into fists. “Don’t play dumb with me, Malfoy. This isn’t… I can’t be with anyone right now, no matter how much I _want_ to,” the green eyes caught Draco’s intensely and his knees just about buckled. “It’s not safe being with me, Voldemort’ll use whoever he can to get to me. Just like he did with Sirius, and-” he broke off and Draco knew by the guilty look that it was about the vision.

“If you don’t tell me what you saw, I’ll slap you,” Draco mumbled, ignoring the sting of being cut loose and stepping forward again. “I’m on your side, you know, and if you don’t tell me I’ll harass Granger or Weasley into getting the answer for me.”

“Ron and Hermione already know, I told them last night,” Potter coughed and averted his eyes. “If I tell you, you might do something stupid.”  
“Much like you’re doing right now,” Draco snarled. “Do you honestly think I’m being put in any danger being with you? If I even am with you?”

“Of course you are!” Potter was almost shouting now, so shrill he sounded like Granger. “If Voldemort finds out I care about you, he’ll use you as bait for me, he’ll have you killed-!”

“Damned if I do, damned if I don’t!” Draco shouted back, grabbing Potter by the wrists and holding him there so their faces were only inches apart. “If I fight for you, he’ll kill me. If I fight for him…” Draco swallowed and realized there was a lump in his throat - tears choked his vision. “If I fight for him, _you_ will.”

Potter froze and yanked his arms from Draco’s grip. “I can’t put you in danger for me,” he said quietly, his chest heaving raggedly.

“Could you kill me, then? Cast the final curse?” Draco demanded, refusing to back down. He was only taller than Potter by a finger-width, but he tried to make himself taller. He pushed his forehead into Potter’s and felt their breaths mingling together in the space he didn’t dare breach just yet. “Could you kill me, Harry?”

“I wouldn’t- I would never-”

“If I fight for him, if I go back to him… it wouldn’t be you, but it would be your cause. Someone would - and who could blame the man who casts the spell? I’m a Death Eater, if you haven’t noticed!” Draco finished with a shuddering gasp and sagged against Potter, begging to be held up just now, begging to be held. Potter took the bait and slid his arms around Draco’s waist.

“You’re not a Death Eater.” 

“Tell that to the Mark.”

There was a flicker of an amused smile on Potter’s lips now. “Should I?”

Draco made a noise that he hoped sounded like a laugh but felt more like a moan of relief. He pressed his lips dryly against the soft skin under Potter’s eye and looped his arms around Potter’s neck, burrowing his face there. To touch Potter was the warmth of a hearth against Draco’s skin and he relished in it. 

“I’ll be in no more danger if you have me than if you don’t,” Draco said tentatively. “But you needn’t make the decision now; are you even _gay_ , Potter?”

Draco felt Potter shrug. “I think there are more important things going on than a sexuality crisis, but if you’re wondering if I’m, um…” he trailed off. “If I’m, you know, attracted…” Draco felt his cheeks going warm and he pressed his face harder against the hollow of Potter’s neck. “I am, I mean, extremely.”

“Good. As am I.”

“I had a hunch.”

Draco laughed quietly but remembered what had spiralled into this fight. “Tell me what you saw, would you _please_?”

Potter tensed against him, but it wasn’t a no. “You have to promise me you’ll not do anything without speaking to me and Ron and Hermione about it first, and you really shouldn’t do anything at all.”

Draco had a sinking feeling about this whole ordeal and wondered if he’d rather the blissful ignorance of Potter’s touch and gentle kisses. What he didn’t know didn’t hurt him, after all.

But he couldn’t do that, not really.

“Tell me, then. I promise.”

Potter pulled away from the embrace to look Draco in the eyes, took a breath, and spoke: “Voldemort has your mother. He’s looking for you. And he’s very, very angry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Don't cut me down, throw me out, leave me here to waste  
> I once was a man with dignity and grace  
> Now I'm slipping through the cracks of your cold embrace  
> So please, please.
> 
> Could you find a way to let me down slowly?  
> A little sympathy, I hope you can show me  
> If you wanna go then I'll be so lonely  
> If you're leaving baby let me down slowly."  
> -'Let Me Down Slowly,' Alec Benjamin


	13. Nobody

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry for how long it's been since I last updated. Also, this chapter is a short one. I really don't have excuses for myself other than I haven't felt like writing and I've been busy enough with other things to not have this fic prioritized. I hope nobody's too mad about the hiatus and I promise I will try my best to update more often again but with the end of the semester steadily approaching I can't make any promises. 
> 
> xx, Chris

They had Draco pinned because he wouldn’t stop thrashing and screaming. It had been a mere five minutes since Potter had broken the news about his mother’s torture, and his only thought was that he needed to get to her.

“See reason, Malfoy,” Granger was lecturing, which didn’t really help anything. “You won’t be able to rescue her by yourself. They’ll catch you if you go back - and maybe she’s not being tortured at all. Voldemort tricked Harry with Sirius once, maybe he knows you’re with us.”

Draco made a big show of relaxing and listening to her, which got Weasley to let down his guard and release his legs. The moment Weasley moved, Draco kicked out and knocked him off the bed before jerking up and pulling Potter with him. Potter didn’t seem keen on his friends knowing they’d been snogging, so Potter’s hands on him were sparse at best. Both Potter and Weasley were starting towards him again, and when his back hit the wall he realized he was cornered. His wand was on the chest of drawers and there was no way he’d manage to get it back without them catching him first, so he held his hands out, his usually gelled hair falling in front of his eyes as he tried to repel them.

“Don’t you touch me!” he wailed, keeping his eyes trained on Potter. “Don’t touch me!”

“Come on, Malfoy,” Ron grumbled, “don’t make us make you get back in bed.”

“Don’t touch me,” Draco repeated, but he knew he sounded weak. He was shuddering something awful, like someone had poured ice-cold water into his gut and it was trickling through his limbs. It was almost impossible to believe that his mother was being tortured, since she’d never done anything particularly risky. Mother had always been _careful_ about the Dark Lord, never putting a toe out of line but also never volunteering for extras like Father. Potter went to catch Draco by the wrist and he pulled it back against himself. “Don’t.”

“Alright, I won’t, then. Could you please just relax? We can talk this through.”

Granger nudged Potter with her elbow. “Why’d you tell him?” she hissed.

A snarl ripped its way through Draco’s throat before he could suppress it. “Because she’s my mother,” he said acidly, edging out of his corner to cross the room. He could feel everyone’s eyes boring into his back and knew that at least one of the two boys had followed him to the windowsill where he stood now, peering out between the crack in the heavy velvet curtains. The light was almost blinding compared to the relative gloom in this bedroom. Granger made an indignant noise and Draco heard Ron mumbling something. Draco caught them taking their leave out of the corner of his eye.

Potter stood awkwardly in the doorway, half-in, half-out. Much like he was with anything involving Draco these days.

“I think I shouldn’t have told you,” Potter admitted finally.

“You should have sooner,” Draco answered fretfully and turned his entire body away from the window now. “You know we have to go after her.”

“Draco, if… if he really does have her it has to be too late now. Besides, what could we even do?”

“You pull stupid, dangerous stunts at least once a damned term!”

“I know.”

The placid, disinterested way Potter said it set Draco off into an even worse frenzy, and he circled to stare into those green eyes intensely. “I know you don’t know what it’s like, being the most famous orphan in all the world, but-” he regretted it as soon as he said it, the way Potter’s face crumpled indescribably. He let the cut-off sentence hang in the air, hoping Potter would say something to release him from the guilt of what he’d just said.

“Okay.”

Draco’s head was muddy, and he was trying to concoct something to say when his forearm exploded. Flames licked up his arm, almost like they were creeping underneath his skin, everything burned. He didn’t remember falling but somehow he was on the floor, his head throbbing dully against the background of agony. He thrashed against hands that tried to still him and howled like a wild thing, only vaguely aware of the burning in his throat from the screaming. He couldn’t see through the inky spots that swam across his vision and he couldn’t think but to feel it worsening. It went on and Draco couldn’t remember a time before the hurting, didn’t know when to expect the end.

Gloriously, when the pain started to ease, Draco blinked clear the inky spots only to be met with Potter’s green eyes, creased with concern and shining with the ghost of tears past. Draco tested his throat with a quiet cough and winced - he’d screamed more than he thought he had.

“What’s the matter?” Draco asked gently, lifting his thumb to the corner of Potter’s eye and swiping the little bit of wetness there away. He noticed his hand shaking when he raised it and dropped it back down, hoping Potter wouldn’t notice. He seemed pretty preoccupied by his worry and kept his eyes trained on Draco’s.

“You- you _collapsed_.”

“The Dark Lord is seeking an audience with me, and I’m ignoring the call,” Draco explained, though by now he knew Potter had heard enough about this Dark Mark business. “Do you trust me still?”

“What do you mean?” 

Draco stared at the Mark, burning faintly still. If he pressed it, he’d be taken to the Dark Lord, he’d be taken to his mother where he might have a chance of saving her. Draco went for his wand and found that it wasn’t there. He tried to play the motion off as just adjusting his belt. “Nothing.”

“Erm, okay?” Potter looked delightfully confused and Draco revelled in it for a fleeting moment before the crushing grip of reality seized him once more. He slumped and crossed the room back to the bed, perching there like a bird about to take flight.

“What am I meant to do?”

“Stay here with us. With me.”

It was such an easy plan compared to that of going to rescue his mother, and Draco had to consider it for at least a moment. He touched his brow and the thought dissolved: he could remember the soothing touch of his mother’s fingertips against his back as he tried fitfully to sleep as a child, her lips against his forehead, her hushed lullabies until he was much, much too old for that sort of thing but she kept on anyway.

“I can’t leave her to suffer,” Draco asserted, watching Potter pace around the bedroom. “I can’t. If it was your mother…”

“I know.”

“Or if it was Mrs Weasley, even, you’d-”

“I _would_ ,” Potter agreed, running his hands through his hair in a motion that stuck it up in a thousand directions. 

“You needn’t help me. It might be easier if you don’t tag along, in fact.”

“I can’t let you do a rescue mission on your own, Draco.”

“Aha! There you go again!” Draco’s grin felt more like a grimace but it was nice to smile all the same. “Calling me ‘Draco’ now, are you?”

“I figure it’s alright, since my tongue’s been in your mouth and all,” Potter answered brashly. Draco coloured and couldn’t find an answer quickly enough. He stammered and then fell silent, his head pounding. “Is that alright?”

“The name?” Draco answered in a small voice.

“Yeah, I can cut it out if it bothers you.”  
“No! No, it’s quite alright, I mean, it is my name,” Draco stared at Potter’s mouth and thought rather decidedly that he’d like to dissolve into those lips of his. It was a restless sort of thought one has while procrastinating, and he brushed it away. 

“Good,” Potter said absently. 

“I think I’ll be going now,” Draco said tentatively. “Every minute is a waste.”

“Come on, not quite yet. I’ve got to talk to Ron and Hermione, we’ve got to plan.”

Draco couldn’t stop fiddling with his hands, he was so anxious to leave. Potter’s face was lined with worry as he left the room to go and speak with his friends. Draco considered leaving the moment Potter left, but he realized it could benefit him to have company. 

“You _what?_ ” he heard Granger shriek and it was less than a breath before he could hear her footsteps thundering into the room. “You’ll not take Harry anywhere, do you hear me, Malfoy? Your mother chose to be a Death Eater!”

Draco recoiled into the mattress and watched the silhouette of Granger’s hair bouncing in his direction. Potter lingered in the doorway but wasn’t exactly leaping to Draco’s defence. “As did I,” Draco mumbled, but Granger continued.

“If she’s being tortured, it’s because she followed Voldemort! It’s her own fault for choosing him over our side!” Granger stopped for a breath and then added: “And we don’t even know if Harry’s vision meant anything. He’s been tricked before.”

Draco tried to catch Potter’s eye but he was averting his gaze to stare at the peeling plaster on the ceiling. Draco’s hands shook and he was nearing another nervous breakdown. His breaths shuddered and he could feel the tears making his cheeks sticky and hot. 

“I don’t see why I couldn’t go myself,” Draco croaked.

“You know where we are! You could tell someone, or you could be followed!”

“Or killed,” Potter finally piped up. 

Draco sneered. “You’d rather like that, wouldn’t you all?”

He knew Potter wouldn’t argue much in Draco’s favour now that they’d kissed, but Ron piped up from the hallway: “I wouldn’t, mate.”

“Potter said he’d go with me,” Draco asserted. “I told him not to, but he said he’ll come. And you can’t stop me either way.”

“No! Neither of you are going!” Granger reiterated, and before Draco could even think about seizing his wand from the bedside table she had her own drawn and pointed at his forehead. He let out a breath and held his hands up.

“You don’t have the right to tell me what to do,” Draco said acidly.

“Don’t I?” Granger asked sweetly, taking another step in Draco’s direction that made him jerk backwards. “The Order took you in to protect you from Voldemort. Mrs Weasley fed you, Lupin found you clothes, you got invited to Fleur’s wedding, for God’s sake! And then Harry brought you with us in what I can only assume is a lapse in judgment, and I’ll be damned if you risk the life we’ve spent so much time trying to save! Yours or Harry’s!” She sagged after the impassioned speech and let her arm drop mechanically to her side. 

Draco gulped.

Potter looked just as lost, glancing between Draco and Granger hesitantly. It was clear he had not a clue what to say, and Draco couldn’t meet Granger’s fiery eyes without feeling like his veins had turned to ice. 

“I’ll call someone,” she added, “I’ll Floo them right now. Lupin might come, and he’s a better wizard than any of you.”

Draco’s mouth was dry. His head throbbed. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Granger was taken aback with the assent.

“Okay,” Potter added.

“Good. If you boys are finished being foolish, we’ve a lot to do if we mean to take down You-Know— Voldemort.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And I don't want your pity  
> I just want somebody near me  
> Guess I'm a coward  
> I just want to feel alright.
> 
> And I know no one will save me  
> I just need someone to kiss  
> Give me one good honest kiss  
> And I'll be alright.
> 
> Nobody, nobody, nobody  
> Nobody, nobody  
> Ooh, nobody, nobody, nobody."  
> -'Nobody,' Mitski

**Author's Note:**

> 'The worm turns' - phrase, mostly literary: used for saying that someone who has been treated badly for a long time suddenly stops accepting this situation and becomes stronger. This expression comes from the proverb "Tread on a worm and it will turn," first recorded in John Heywood's 1546 collection.


End file.
